


It’s Only Madness

by LettersFromTheAsylum



Series: Dick Grayson in New York City [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, White Collar, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bruce is a good dad, Dick is Neal, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Gotham replaces Atlantic City, Hughes knows, Human Trafficking, Identity Reveal, Kidnapping, Secret Identity, Tim Drake and Dick Grayson are Siblings, incorrect geography, neal is dick, not as dark as it sounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24087007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LettersFromTheAsylum/pseuds/LettersFromTheAsylum
Summary: The glass door swings open and bounces against the wall. Immediately, Hughes glares up at him, preparing to scold him. Neal is speaking before he gets the chance.“You’re sending Peter to Gotham?”•••Neal Caffrey used to be someone else.
Relationships: Elizabeth Burke/Peter Burke
Series: Dick Grayson in New York City [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/392266
Comments: 105
Kudos: 418





	1. Principium

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: I don’t know if I’ll ever finish this. I have it written up to chapter 3 but given my history of losing interest in stories I start, who knows what will happen. I’ll try to end the chapters in a place that could serve as an ending. If you choose to continue, I hope you enjoy.

The glass door swings open and bounces against the wall. Immediately, Hughes glares up at him, preparing to scold him. Neal is speaking before he gets the chance.

“You’re sending Peter to Gotham?” He knows his voice is too loud, that the agents in the bullpen are staring at them, reaching for their guns. The fear and anger swirling in his gut prevent him from caring.

Peter is too good for Gotham. He loves his wife and his dog and his job and baseball. He isn’t corrupt like the agents in Gotham, hasn’t seen the same darkness.

Gotham is unfathomable to someone like Peter and the news doesn’t do justice to the depravity that seeps into the souls of all but a few that live there. You have to be that way just to survive. Neal doesn’t expect Hughes or his superiors to understand that, but he has to try.

Hughes’ expression goes from vexation to bewilderment in a heartbeat. His hands go up in what seems to be a placating manner, but Neal knows he’s not trying to ward off an attack. He knows what he said can get him in a million different kinds of trouble. It’s not the kind of thing a criminal consultant should know.

Bruce had warned him not to act on the information, that it was meant to be less of a call to action and more of a warning. He was powerless to stop it if he wanted to keep his position with the FBI.

“Caffrey! Keep your voice down. And shut the door.” Hughes responds. His eyes stay glued to Neal as he turns and shuts the door with a gentleness that Hughes doesn’t deserve. He gestures to the seat on the other side of his desk and Neal takes it. The scowl hasn’t left his face.

Hughes sighs. “How the hell do you know that? I know you have some less than conscientious contacts, but that is classified.”

Neal knew that was coming. Instead of answering, he pushes on. “Look, you don’t know what you’re doing. Peter can’t handle Gotham–“

“Caffrey, Peter is an experienced agent. He was already in the field when you were still in high school.” Hughes looks more annoyed with him than usual, on the verge of outright anger, maybe.

But Neal’s angry too. He has to make him understand.

His fists clench. He has no intention of hitting the man, but the anger is building up. He is growing impatient. “You don’t know what you’re doing. If you send Peter to Gotham, you’re sending him to his death. The criminals there, they’re not concerned about what priceless paintings they can get their hands on, they’re dangerous. There’s no such thing as a non-violent offender in Gotham.”

“Oh, stop being overdramatic. Peter is one of our top agents, he can handle himself. Besides, Gotham isn’t nearly as bad as the news makes it out to be.”

Hughes must notice Neal’s expression darken because his eyebrows immediately shoot up. “Got something to tell me, _Caffrey_?”

The way he says it, the way he puts emphasis on the name, tells Neal that he probably suspects. The way he looks at him makes Neal feel like Hughes knows all his secrets.

He hates it.

In a way, Neal can’t blame him. Hughes has seen some heinous crimes, but he’s still a man that believes in the justice system. He, like Peter, believes that the FBI is genuinely a force for good. A part of Neal knows that too, but he grew up in a corrupt city where you run from anyone with a badge if you want to live because you have no way of knowing whether they are actually there to help or just as bad as the criminals they’re supposed to catch. As a result, he treats any law enforcement with a healthy amount of skepticism.

Now that his impulsiveness has driven him in here he knows he isn’t actually going to be able to make a difference. He’s sitting at his boss’ boss’ desk, one step removed from yelling at him, and he knows it’s all for nothing anyway.

“No.”

Hughes continues staring at him. If his goal is to make Neal squirm, it’s working. Eventually, he exhales out of his nose. “Alright. I doubt it will be much comfort, but it isn’t up to me anyway. If I could stop it, I would. Peter Burke is the kind of agent you only come across once in your career, and I’m not thrilled to lose him.”

Neal nods. He’s right, it doesn’t ease the fear. If anything, it cements just how helpless he is.

“When you leave, try not to shatter the door. If you do, you’ll be paying for it in supermax.”

* * *

Neal’s apartment isn’t built for secrecy. The windows that take up a large portion of the front wall are a huge vulnerability, but there’s not much he can do without alerting June.

One benefit to the mansion being as old as it is is the many passageways that even the FBI’s thorough sweep didn’t catch. After realizing that living with June would also entail having housekeepers in and out while he was gone, Neal broke out some bat tech and found a small room hidden behind the drywall in the walk-in closet. It wasn’t ideal, but he needed a place to conduct vigilante business without running the risk of someone coming in.

The fact that it was covered by drywall meant that someone didn’t want it found, which also meant that June probably didn’t know about it.

Luckily, she didn’t have to. The air duct in the alleyway served as a perfect entry point.

There isn’t much to his crude lab and it can hardly be considered an alternative to the Batcave, but it serves its purpose and is well-hidden, so much so that even Mozzie hasn’t mentioned the strange signals coming from the wall.

One downside is that coming and going is time-consuming at best and a significant risk of exposure at worst. A mansion like this in the middle of Manhattan is always going to be something worth stopping and staring at, a work of art in its own right.

Neal could save himself a lot of trouble by finding a place where he could live alone, but he knows that even with a conman’s charm, he can’t make that work without questions. Questions even he couldn’t smile and charm his way out of.

More often than he will admit, Neal finds himself missing the simplicity of Gotham and vigilantism there. While that life was several different kinds of complicated, at least he lived with people who knew and didn’t question where he went at night. They knew that when he wasn’t in the mansion, he was likely in the massive cave system below the house. Bruce didn’t make him wear a tracker around his ankle that, while he could hack, if it’s discovered that he frequently does just that would lead to a series of events that end in Neal burning an alias and fleeing the city.

But out of all those points, the main thing Neal misses is that Bruce, for the most part, would leave him be. Unless he was injured, Bruce gave him the benefit of the doubt and despite being somewhat emotionally unavailable at times, he always gave Dick space if he thought that’s what he needed.

In short, he never once showed up unannounced to his apartment.

Peter, however…

“Where were you?”

Neal would be lying if he said he didn’t jump. He should have noticed the agent’s car parked in front of June’s. Bruce would be disappointed.

Naturally, he recovers quickly. “What? I was on the balcony.”

Okay, so maybe he is stumbling today...

Peter levels a glare at him. Neal knows

what that means before Peter even speaks. “I checked. You weren’t out there.” He swings his head around. “Is Mozzie here? What are you planning?”

Neal thinks that should be Peter’s catchphrase.

“Mozzie isn’t here,” Neal answers. The constant suspicion grates on his nerves sometimes, but Peter is just doing his job. He can’t fault the man for it, even if his worry is misplaced.

“That doesn’t answer my other question.”

Neal scoffs. “Yes, it does.”

Peter makes a face, but he knows that any further questions wouldn’t lead to anything. Instead, he sighs. “Get dressed. I don’t have time for this today.”

Neal knows Peter doesn’t know about the FBI’s plans to send him to Gotham. If he did, there’s no doubt in Neal’s mind that Peter wouldn’t be okay with it. He wouldn’t just accept it and move to a place with more thieves and murderers per capita than anywhere else in the country. And that doesn’t even begin to cover the more… extreme criminals.

Peter is silent until they’re halfway to the office. It’s at that point that Neal’s resolve gives.

“What’s going on? You seem… prickly,” Neal says.

The leather covering the steering wheel creaks under Peter’s tightening fists. He sighs and flicks the turn signal down, letting it blink exactly thirty-seven times before he speaks.

“I have a meeting today. It’s Hughes and some of his higher-ups. I just can’t figure out what they want. They don’t usually meet on such short notice like this,” Peter says.

The fear that made its home in Neal’s stomach returns with a vengeance and he hopes it doesn’t show in his face. Neal has an idea of what that meeting might be about, but he doesn’t dare mention it to Peter. He still isn’t sure how he got away with confronting Hughes himself about it, but he chooses to count his blessings.

Neal clears his throat. He turns and focuses on the street performer across the street. “I’m sure it will be fine. After all, if it was about something involving me, I’m sure I’d be in cuffs by now. It's probably nothing you did.”

The weight on Peter’s shoulders doesn’t lessen any, but he does give him a grateful look.

* * *

The second they walk through the doors, Neal immediately notices the hush settled over the room. He hates it. The shades in the conference room were pulled, blocking any curious agents–or criminal consultants–from seeing inside.

Hughes is perched at the top of the stairs. He’s watching them enter, and he waves Peter towards him. Neal feels that ever-present fear tighten itself around his lungs. He already knows the bad news Peter is about to receive and it feels like watching him walk into the Joker's lair and the thought of the Joker himself doesn’t scare Neal nearly as much as the thought that Peter might have to face him.

Neal never thought his two worlds would ever collide. His life in New York and his life in Gotham–and all that it entails–are so far removed that he thought he had nothing to worry about.

As he watches Peter close the conference room door behind him, he knows he miscalculated.

He feels like he’s floating as he sits at his desk, like at any moment his feet might leave the ground and he might just sail away. He closes his eyes and tries to still his shaky hands. Bruce taught him better than this. Neal knows how to bury his emotions and do what needs to be done.

Neal picks up a pen and drags a stray file closer to him. He hopes none of the agents around him notice that instead of doing actual work, he’s doodling on a random piece of paper he found in the file. It’s a nervous habit at this point, something more subtle than leaving his seat and pacing. As the minutes drag on, his doodle becomes something bigger, ink lines turning into a face. Hard lines form the set of a man’s brows, wispy half-circles making up his hair.

Neal pulls back and studies the drawing like it's the first time he’s seeing it. He curses when he realizes what he’s done. Memories of Gotham were seeping into every aspect of his life now.

He pushes his chair away from his desk and stands, the wait finally getting to him. He leans over to Jones and mumbles something about needing some air and races to the elevator.

Once he’s outside and a decent distance away from the building, he pulls out his phone and dials a familiar number.

“Dick? Is everything alright?” Bruce answers.

Neal lets out a breath. His fingers are clenched tight around the phone. “Yeah, yeah. Well, no, not really.”

Bruce stills on the other line. He’s never been good with emotions, but Neal knows he tries. It’s been a process getting him to the point where he’ll even give Neal the time of day. Neal knows he never has any ill-will towards him. He had been in the same closed off, emotionally distant state when he’d come to live with Bruce.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce’s voice is pitched low, meaning that he was almost definitely doing something Batman related.

“Remember what you told me last week? About the FBI?” Neal is hyper-aware of every set of ears around him, FBI or not. It won’t bode well for him if someone overheard. “I can’t stop it.”

He hears Bruce growl. “I told you–“

“I know, I’m sorry. But Bruce, you know I couldn’t just let it happen,” Neal says.

Bruce knows that. He knows all too well what a bleeding heart Neal is. The fact that Neal couldn’t save everyone weighed heavily on him even as a kid. “I know.”

“Isn’t there something you can do?”

Bruce sighs. “Dick, you know I can’t. Not without causing a dozen other problems, ones not even the Justice League can make disappear.”

Neal leans his head back against the stone. Helplessness is not a good feeling and he isn’t used to it at all. He feels the frustration build up and suppresses the urge to scream. Instead, he groans. “Okay. I get it.”

“Just come home, Dick. This time tomorrow there can be no trace of Neal Caffrey,” Bruce says. He knows the answer before it comes.

Neal lets out a laugh that sounds more resentful than amused. “Oh, that you can do,” Neal snarks. It’s not fair. Bruce doesn’t deserve it. “Sorry.”

“Hm.”

  
Neal shakes his head. The door opens, and Neal’s heart speeds up as he watches Peter exit. In the time it takes Neal to hang up the phone, Peter spots him and walks his way.

Peter doesn’t look particularly devastated. Actually, he doesn’t look anything, his face stony. His expression is rather Bruce-like, actually. It’s almost startling. Neal raises his eyebrows, lets his posture relax into something more like the laid back con man.

“Mozzie?” Peter asks, looking pointedly at Neal’s phone. He doesn’t seem to notice that it isn’t Neal’s government-issued phone, and Neal tucks it away before he can.

Neal nods. He forces himself to meet Peter's eyes. Neal has been off for a few days now and considering Peter hasn’t said anything, he probably hasn’t noticed. Neal needs to make sure that doesn’t change. “Well? Are they sending you to the gallows?”

His attempt at humor falls flat. Peter’s mouth was set in a line, his gaze somewhere to his left. So it seems the FBI hadn’t changed their minds. This was really it.

“Try Gotham.” Peter’s expression was unreadable, but Neal knows what he’s feeling. Peter has no fantasies about Gotham, and while he might not know the extent of the city’s wickedness, he knows it’s no paradise.

Neal shoves his hands in his pockets. “So… same thing?”

Peter glances at him and Neal sees the corners of his lips turn up. He nods. “Same thing.”

Neal laughs. He walks past Peter and begins his journey back to the land of paperwork. He feels Peter fall into step beside him and when they’re both leaning against the wall of the elevator, Peter suddenly remembers something.

“Don’t worry, our deal is still valid,” Peter says.

Neal, off in his own world, comes back to himself with a start. “What?”

Peter looks at him with resignation in his eyes. “They’re not sending you back to prison. You will have a new handler, but our deal still stands. You’ll serve your remaining sentence on the anklet.”

The words stir up that old anger. Neal couldn’t tell Peter that that was the least of his worries. He nods, pretends that he won’t cut his anklet the second Peter steps on a plane and be in Gotham before Peter lands. He could be Peter’s guardian angel, watching from the rooftops and making sure that the greatest evil he ever encountered was piles of paperwork.

Bruce’s proposition to come home doesn't sound so bad, but he still doesn’t want Peter within one-hundred miles of Gotham’s boundaries.

The elevator lurches to a stop, the movement doing nothing to quell the nervous nausea in Neal’s stomach. He steps off, one Italian leather loafer in front of the other before someone calls his name and he freezes.

Neal’s head snaps up. Hughes is standing there, hands on his hips and a look on his face that tells Neal he’s in trouble.

“Sir?”

Neal feels Peter’s eyes on him, a silent, ‘what did you do now?’ written on his face.

Hughes pushes past both agent and con, calling back to him without looking. “Walk with me.”


	2. Ventum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hughes and Neal talk; Peter and Neal say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda hate this chapter. It took me so long to figure out how to end it.
> 
> Anyway, this story is going in a different direction than I anticipated. Originally, I was going to keep both Peter and Neal in NYC, but I kind of hit a dead end with that idea, so I’m doing something else. Hopefully I can pick up the other idea and post it later, but for now I’m just going to work on this.
> 
> Anyway, sorry for the wait. I meant to have this up sooner, but here we are. This chapter was tough to finish, but now that this is done, I can work on the part I’m excited for. If you spot any mistake, please let me know. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

  
The wind tousles Neal’s hair as he leans over the balcony railing. Hughes has led him to the twenty-fourth-floor balcony and now here they sat, so far above the city streets. Neither has spoken, delaying the inevitable, a conversation that Neal knew was coming. Hughes has been looking at him strangely since Neal’s outburst in his office, and since then, Neal has been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Hughes is far from stupid. Peter told him about some of the things the man has accomplished in his career and Neal thinks that even Bruce would be impressed. He is a highly respected agent and a dedicated purveyor of justice. Of course, the man would be wary of the criminal in his ranks, even if he’s wrong about the nature of Neal’s crimes.

Neal hears a chair scrape behind him and he turns. Hughes is seated at the worn wooden table behind him, opting to bathe in the sunlight instead of relaxing in the shade. He’s tapping a box of cigarettes on the table with his left hand, his right points at the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

Neal obeys, mostly because he doesn’t want to give Hughes another reason to be angry. Neal wants to rectify this as best he can, possibly keep his status as a CI.

“Didn’t know you were a smoker.” 

Hughes pulls out a cigarette and tucks the box away. His eyes never leave Neal as he flicks a lighter a couple of times until he gets a flame. “My wife doesn’t either. I’ve been trying to quit, but I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”

Neal steadfastly ignored the guilt curling in his chest as he took in the sight of the cigarette. Fondness took over instead as he remembered another officer of the law with a nicotine addiction. Neal doesn’t think Hughes would like Commissioner Gordon much, not with Gordon’s inclination for looking the other way where vigilantes were concerned. 

Gotham was a whole other beast though. Maybe Hughes would do the same if half his workforce was prone to bend to the whims of monsters with money and some guys in capes were the only ones willing to help him uphold the law.

Hughes lets the cigarette burn for a bit before speaking. “I don’t understand, Caffrey.”

Neal glances up from the table. “I’m sorry?”

Hughes takes a drag from the cigarette and looks out over the city. He doesn’t look thrilled to be having this conversation, but Hughes isn’t the one that might have to drop everything and run.

“I’ve let the idea sit. I’ve turned it around a million times and I just don’t understand why you’re here.” Hughes flicks some ash off his cigarette.

Neal smirks, but it’s half-hearted. “Why are any of us here?”

His poor attempt at a joke gets the frosty reception he expects. Hughes’ frown grows deeper and he shakes his head. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t take this seriously. Does anything bother you? I know the name is fake, the happy-go-lucky charade has to be, too.”

Neal rubs a hand over his face and groans. “You’re right, I’m sorry. What did you call me up here for?”

“Caffrey, I can’t stop the transfer. No one is willing to take Peter’s place. I hate it just as much as–no, I hate it more than you. It’s out of my hands.”

Neal nods. He understands that Hughes is losing one of his best agents. He knew even before he made the ill-advised decision to confront him about it that Hughes wouldn’t be able to change anything. Neal overestimated the man’s reach. Peter belongs to Gotham now.

Hughes blows out smoke and pulls his jacket tighter around himself. “The circus, huh?”

Neal should be shocked. Maybe he should be floundering for an excuse, for denials, but for once, he’s quiet. He knows there is no way of fixing it. He accepts his fate, Neal’s background as an acrobat isn’t well known, so if Hughes knows about that, he knows everything. 

Neal inhales and holds it. “Yeah. The circus.”

Truth be told, he hasn’t thought about Haly’s in a while. It’s the kind of information the agents downstairs would snicker over. Neal Caffrey in bright-colored tights. Hilarious. 

He hasn’t thought about his parents in a while, either. Sure, he misses them, and he knows he always will, but he’s moved on. He’s recovered from the greatest loss of his life, the gaping wounds a mere scar now.

As if reading his mind, Hughes says, “I heard about your parents, too. That’s an awful thing for a child to see. I’m sorry.”

Neal always hated this. The pitying looks and sad smiles for the little orphan boy. There’s no pity on Hughes’ face though, not even in his voice. His expression is as stony as it always is and his voice doesn’t waver. Pity isn’t what he’s offering, it’s sympathy.

“It was a long time ago. I’ve moved on.” Neal scratches at the wood, ever restless.

Hughes nods. “Yes, but that kind of pain never really goes away, does it? That’s something that Bruce Wayne knows well. That’s why he took you in, right?”

Hughes doesn’t say it, but Neal knows what he’s implying, and it makes him angry. For all his faults, Bruce has always cared for him. “Bruce didn’t adopt me to improve his public image. He did it because he knows how terrifying it is to be alone. He didn’t want to watch something like that happen to someone when he knew he could help.”

Hughes has a spark in his eye as he pulls back. “Look at that. I finally tripped you up, Caffrey.”

Neal stands, his anxiety finally hitting a boiling point. He has to pace. It’s always been his nervous habit. 

He’s incriminated himself. Bruce had tried to curb his impulsiveness. It seemed like it had worked for a while, but it reared its ugly head again, getting him into situations he couldn’t charm his way out of. 

“So, what happens now?”

Hughes looks him up and down like he’s seeing things he never had before and trying to fit them in with his perception of Neal Caffrey. Neal’s got an acrobat’s figure, lithe and muscular. There’s a bit of aristocracy in his posture. It isn’t hard to see Dick Grayson in him.

“I think…” Hughes trails off, considering him. He flicks the cigarette off to the side and stands. “You should be sent back to prison.”

Neal’s heart stops. He expected that, yeah, but it doesn’t make it any less horrible to hear. Before he can protest, Hughes speaks.

“It’s a shame I didn’t find anything.”

Neal stops short, surprised. It seems his presumption that Hughes is unwaveringly faithful to the rules is untrue.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not like the usual scum that comes from Gotham. Peter trusts you and I trust Peter. We don’t need to complicate it.” Hughes turns to the door and throws a look back at him. “Come on. We both know Peter’s like a dog with a bone so if you want to keep this conversation a secret…” He gestures pointedly towards the door.

Neal nods absently, letting muscle memory carry him to the door.

* * *

Peter sits in his office, trying to look busy and failing miserably. Neal knows that Peter can’t focus when he’s stressed, so he’s probably watching baseball highlights on his work computer, hand hovering over the mouse in case Hughes walks in and he has to exit the page quickly.

The entire office is absorbed in their assigned duties, investigating and verifying, and filling out paperwork. Neal can’t bring himself to look busy.

Each second that passes feels like one second closer to watching Peter walk off to his doom. Logically, he knows Peter is a trained agent, and he knows that Peter will be in the company of other trained agents, but the fact that those agents are from Gotham is more distressing than comforting.

Part of him wishes Peter would run, or quit, or refuse, but this is Peter. The third most important thing in Peter’s world is his job.

Peter must’ve noticed Neal’s failure to be productive, because he stands from his desk, walks to the glass railing and gestures for Neal to follow him into his office.

As Neal shuts the glass door, Peter sits down. The office is entirely too see-through. Neal feels like they’re on display, and a quick glance behind him shows a few agents watching them through the glass. 

Peter wastes no time. “You’re not working either, so I figure you can keep me company.

Neal says nothing for a moment. Peter gestures to the chair in front of his desk and Neal sits obediently.   
  


He isn’t really sure what to say. It feels like if he talks about anything other than Gotham, it will seem like avoidance, but if he mentions Gotham, the clock will tick faster. 

Peter figures it’s best to avoid dancing around the topic. Doing so won’t make the inevitable hold off any longer anyway. “I’m leaving next week.”

“Isn’t that a little soon?” Neal asks. 

Peter holds his hands out. “What can I do?”

Neal shakes his head. He can think of a few things, but Peter wouldn’t like any of them.

“I mean, I know what you would do,” Peter adds as an afterthought. 

_Yeah,_ he thinks, _take a page from my book, here._ “Why?”

Peter manages to look at him, although he keeps his gaze somewhere around Neal’s tie rather than his eyes. “They say there has been an uptick in violent crime and they need agents to fill the open spots.”

Gotham has always been violent; that doesn’t make it Peter’s problem. Neal’s chest turns to ice. “So, what does that have to do with you? You’re white collar.”

Peter waves dismissively. Clearly, he and Neal have different concerns. “They train us for everything at Quantico. Actually, I spent the early years of my career in Major Crimes.”

This is exactly what Neal was afraid of. Not only would Peter be surrounded by violent crimes every day, but he will also be directly responsible for solving them, which tends to make the guilty party very angry and vengeful. Revenge only ends one way in a place like that. Neal has seen far too many cops wind up dead for simply doing their jobs.

“They’re transferring you to Major Crimes?” At Peter’s nod, Neal only got angrier. “They have Batman, why do they need you?”

He knows it's a stupid thing to say. Peter doesn't know the things he knows about Batman and the man under the cowl, doesn't know how Bruce’s guilt about his parents' deaths led him to become the world's greatest detective. Peter doesn’t know that Bruce solves cold cases sometimes, in the very rare spare time he has, and solves them with very little effort. Gotham doesn’t _need_ Peter because they already have someone just as good.

Maybe it’s selfish of him to think that. After all, he’s been raised to do anything he can to help the people of Gotham, and Peter Burke will certainly be an asset to the city.

Peter looks bewildered. He meets Neal’s eyes for the first time. “Neal, Batman is a vigilante. He _is_ a criminal. Besides, while Batman is just a civilian with cool gadgets, I actually was trained for this kind of thing. I can handle it.”

Neal decides it’s not worth it to keep arguing. It’s not like Peter has the authority to change it, and he is certainly in a worse situation than Neal, even if he doesn’t seem to realize it. What is it with all these law enforcement agents brushing off Gotham’s crime statistics like they don’t mean anything?

“Jones will most likely be your new handler,” he says, nonchalantly but with underlying regret.   
  


“What?” Neal asks, thoroughly confused by the subject change.

  
  


Peter looks up at him. “Our deal. I told you that you wouldn’t go back to prison, remember?”

Ah, that. Yes, he remembers. He just doesn’t care. He and Peter both know that he could cut and run at any time. It’s not _that_ part of their conversation that he’s worried about.

But Neal nods in agreement and tries not to throw up as he makes his way back to his seat. 

* * *

  
  
Peter’s last day at the White Collar office is a tough one. Jones and Diana stand in the doorway of his office, wearing matching smiles that don’t reach their eyes.

“We’re going to miss you, boss,” Diana says.

Beside her, Jones nods. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye on Caffrey.”

Peter thanks them both, smiles even as their words leave an uneasy feeling in his stomach. They leave him alone in his empty office.

It’s nearly the end of the day when Neal comes in, his cheery smile intact, but fragile. If Peter could see through it so easily, Neal must be more upset than he lets on.

“All packed up, huh?”

Peter nods at him. As much as Neal infuriates him at times, he’s going to miss him. He is definitely an asset. In the few years he’s been out of prison, Neal has proved himself to be an invaluable part of his team. Peter is proud of him, even if there were a few hiccups along the way.

“El wants to head out early tomorrow.” Peter flips a pen between his fingers, idle hands searching for something to do even though he has no paperwork. It hits him then that he doesn’t even work here anymore.

“Sounds like El,” Neal comments, but he sounds distracted. “What is she going to do in Gotham?”

“I don’t think she’s really thought about it yet. This all happened so fast. She mentioned wanting to open another branch of Burke Premiere Events, but I think she was considering the Upper East Side, not New Jersey.” If Peter sounds bitter, who can blame him? Hopefully Gotham isn’t as bad as he thinks.

Neal grunts in acknowledgment, but doesn’t otherwise comment. He stands there in front of the desk, looking down at his feet and shifting his weight from side to side. His hands are deep in his pocket and he looks every bit like he might be working up the courage to tell him something. Peter raises his eyebrows.

“Neal?”

Neal meets his curious gaze with a look in his eye that’s far more serious than Peter has ever seen him wear. He shakes his head and allows a small grin to take over the grave look. “Just… be careful. Gotham is a hellhole.”

Peter debates whether or not it’s worth it to dig deeper, find out what Neal originally wanted to say. After a few seconds, he decides against it. It’s his last day, after all, he might as well let Neal off easy.

Peter wants to scoff and tell him he’d be fine. He isn’t a probie, he knows what he’s doing, knows how to defend himself. Unlike Neal, Peter knows how to throw a punch. But he can read beneath it, knows that Neal can only show so much emotion. He knows what Neal really means and it warms his heart to know that he cares about him.

Not that he’ll ever tell him that. 

“Don’t worry about me, Neal. I hear there are some guys in costumes looking out for people. I’ll be fine.” Peter didn’t mention the fact that Batman’s existence did not comfort him at all. In fact, he wasn’t sure he approved of the man’s methods.

Neal didn’t seem reassured, but he did give Peter a small smile.

“Hey, when your sentence is up, you should come to visit us. We’re going to miss you,” Peter tries to sound as nonchalant as possible, never one to show emotion. 

Neal, of course, sees through it. He nods, his usual smirk firmly in place. “Of course you will. How could you not?”

Peter groans, but he can’t stop his smile.

* * *

Peter has been out of state before, for college and then Quantico, but New York has always been home. The sight of his life packed up into boxes makes his chest hurt. New York is where he met his wife and fell in love with her. It’s where his dad still lives. 

He’s put so much time into renovations in this house, so much money and sweat. He hates to watch it go.

Peter pulls the moving truck closed and steps back with a huff, wiping the sweat away from his forehead. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turns. 

“Oh yeah, show up when the hard work is over with,” Peter teases.

Neal grins. “Naturally.” He lifts the white box in his arms. “From June.”

Peter takes the box. Inside is a chocolate cake topped with coconut shavings. “Oh, I love coconut.”

“Yeah, because you’re eighty.”

Peter shoots him a chastising look, but they both know his heart isn’t in it. Neal is only trying to inject a little normal into this… very strange moment. His entire life is packed into a fifteen-foot truck, ready to be taken to a new city two hours south. Whether they will ever return is up in the air.

“The couch is packed up, but if you want, I think I’ve got some wine leftover,” Peter offers.

Neal agrees, happy to get out of the sun.


	3. Papilionem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick returns home and finds that flying is just like riding a bike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I think I have a good portion of the story figured out now. Whether it actually gets written isn’t exactly up to me, but this is the furthest I’ve gotten with any story so far, so it’s looking good. 
> 
> I really appreciate your guys’ comments. It makes me happy to know that you all like the way the story is going. I hope I can continue to make this story something worth coming back for.

Dick honestly can’t say he’s felt normal the past few weeks, but stepping out of the car in front of the manor feels like a start.

Mozzie disappeared the second they stepped foot into the city, vanishing in one of the rain-slick buildings beside a pizza joint. Dick isn’t too worried about him. Mozzie at least knows the kind of city Gotham is.

He pulls his jacket closer to his body as the rain picks up. His ankle feels lighter without the anklet, and he feels a bit strange wearing jeans and a jacket instead of a three-piece-suit, but the suits were never his preference anyway. They were just a way to separate himself further from who he really is.

Before making his way to the door, Dick stops and turns around, taking another glance at the city. It really is beautiful from a distance, a city built by people with better intentions. The tall gothic skyscrapers cut through the heavy smog, rising above the city. He can make out Wayne Enterprises, the tallest building in the skyline marked by a bright blue ‘W’ on the front.

Dick turns back when he hears the front door open. Alfred wears a small smile and a twinkle in his eye as he watches him.

“Welcome home, Master Dick.”

Dick grins at the sight of him. Hugs have never really been a thing in the manor, but he’s tempted as he walks past the butler. Instead, he offers him a nod. 

“Good to see you, Alfie.”

As much as he hates the circumstances, it feels good to be home.

* * *

The thing about home is; it never takes much effort for you to find your place. You could leave for hours or days or months or years, but when you return there will always be a place for you at the table and people there to welcome you back.

Coming back to Gotham felt like comfort and warmth, even if it did include being punched in the face by gang members and shot at by would-be robbers.

Basically, attempted murder is Gotham’s expression of love.

Smog fills the air, filtering out all but the brightest stars. With each breath it enters his lungs, filling his airways and marking him.

He belongs to Gotham, now and always. No amount of playing pretend with the FBI or illegal shenanigans in Europe can erase the simple fact that he is Gotham bred, through and through.

Stopping an assault here, saving a stabbing victim there, he flips and spins his way through the city. When he’s here, doing what he does best, he’s happier than he’s ever been. 

The moonlight reflects off his mask as he drops down into an alleyway. Three men moving crates stop and glance up.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he says, cheery as ever.

One of them reaches for his belt and Dick leaps into action, flying off the edge of the box truck and disarming the first man with a swift punch. 

It seems that in his years away from Gotham, he hasn’t developed rust. Each of his blows land and it feels like nothing has changed. Experience guides him, throwing him out of a stray blade’s path and thrilling him in a way only nights like these can.

The men go down easy. It felt like an eternity, but in reality, the confrontation took less than ten seconds. Ten seconds and four men were unconscious, lying on the slick, grimy concrete.

It feels just like old times.

Behind him, there’s a bang. He spins around, searching the alleyway with only the dim neons of the surrounding shops lighting the way.

“Hello?”

Dick waits, listens for the noise again. When he hears nothing but the men behind him groaning and some distant cars, he nearly gives up.

But then…

“Help!”

He launches himself forward, running in the direction of the box truck. He yanks at the tiny padlock that holds the door shut. 

“Master Lock,” he snorts. “Amateurs.”

Dick’s lock picking abilities were born at the same place where he learned how to weaponize a smile, where he learned the use of a good showman.

The circus is where Neal Caffrey was born.

The fingertip of one of his gloves holds a hidden pick. It’s not ideal, but it can be used as a lockpick in an emergency situation. Of course, he always runs the risk of it breaking, as it was intended for handcuff locks, not padlocks.

The lock clicks open. “Ah-hah!”

Dick has never believed that he’s seen it all. Not the way the older cops like Bullock did, well into their fifties and unlikely to make it past detective. Sure, living in Gotham changes you, and being a cop in Gotham has to be substantially worse, but the older and more grizzled those officers get, the more they believe that they’re prepared for anything. 

One of Bruce’s first lessons had been to expect nothing and prepare for anything (which had led to a very strange period of time where Robin found himself–exasperated–shoving a can of shark repellent into his belt.) Nothing is off the table and even if you think you know what’s behind a particular door, you don’t. 

So he pulls the door open and moves to the side, preparing for a sword or fear gas or wind-up teeth. When there’s no flash of metal or chemical scent, he cautiously peeks around the side of the truck.

Nothing.

Well, not  _ nothing _ . He’s pretty sure a little girl counts as  _ something _ .

It’s just… not exactly what he expected.

Everyone’s always told him that he’s good with children, that he’ll make a good father if he wants to be. At that moment, though, he finds himself at a loss for words. 

Kidnapping victim? Human trafficking? There are dozens of explanations as to how the girl got here, but he can’t think of a single reason why she’s alone in a twelve-foot box truck. She’s chained to the floor via a single cuff around her ankle and she is so small that even that seems like overkill.

But Dick knows better. He isn’t some rookie officer or clueless civilian. Even back when he was in tights, he could tell you that this girl isn’t all she seems.

Dick remembers himself. He ceases his analysis and keeps his attention on the girl, clad in only an oversized, dirty t-shirt and clutching a stuffed elephant. She’s afraid. He smiles to put her at ease.

“Hi. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” he tells her, holding up his hands where she can see them.

The elephant in her arms is tattered and filthy, clearly something she’s had for a while. That strikes him as odd. He’s never met kidnappers that worry about such minor things as the comfort of their victim.

“What’s your name?”

He waits. The girl twists the ear of the elephant and stares at him like she doesn’t believe that he is harmless. Just when Dick thinks she isn’t going to answer, he hears a faint, “Vivian.”

Dick grins. Slowly, he steps forward. He keeps his eyes on her as he places one booted foot on the back of the truck, then the other. He slides next to her, so slow that he’s hardly moving. 

“Vivian. Nice to meet you.” He keeps his voice low and soft. As he speaks, he reaches into his belt for his handheld laser so he can break the cuff. “My name is Nightwing. I’m here to help you.”

Dick shows her the laser, turning it in his hand so she could see that it wasn’t a tool to harm her with. The girl doesn’t flinch away as he moves closer to her, so he takes that as a sign that she’s okay with his proximity. 

The cuff falls to the metal floor with a clang. Dick stands and hops onto the concrete. Behind him, Vivian stays put.

He turns and glances at her. She’s staring at the men lying on the ground. The men who put her in this box, the ones who hurt her and were likely planning to do so again. 

“You hurt them.”

Dick tilts his head. Her voice was barely more than a murmur, but he notes a vague accent. European, maybe.

“My job is to protect people. Sometimes I have to… fight. But they’ll be okay.”

Vivian studies him for a minute. Her gaze is set where the white lens of his mask is, but he feels like she can see past them. It’s like she’s searching every inch of his soul for any indication of dishonesty.

“You didn’t kill them?”

He shakes his head.

“Promise?”

It’s such a childish thing to say that it breaks his heart. She’s so young and she’s surely seen more horrors than most. He remembers when he was her age and the innocence that was stolen from him, and he nods.

“Promise.”

As if to prove his point, one of the men behind him coughs. It’s harsh and wet and racks his whole body. 

“See?” Behind the mask, his eyebrows raise. “That’s what smoking gets you.”

Vivian hides her growing smirk with the elephant. She stands on steady legs and steps down onto the bumper of the truck. Dick grabs her hand so she can jump down.

“I need to take you to the police station, but first,” he glances across the street at the only pizza place still open this late at night. “Are you hungry?”

Vivian nods furiously.

* * *

Dick kicks his feet, looking every bit like a child on a swing and not a grown man dressed in a costume and sitting on the edge of a building. Forty feet below him is the deserted roads that serve as a stark reminder that he’s not in New York anymore. There’s no honking horns and no exhaust fumes invading his senses. This part of Gotham is mostly abandoned at night, populated only by rats and rodents.

He tosses his pizza crust into the box sitting on the ledge beside him and turns to his companion. 

“You really fought Two-Face?” Vivian asks, now on her fourth slice of pizza. It amazes him how much a child so small can eat.

“I did.”

“Did you win?”

Dick grimaces. Phantom pains crawl up his spine as he remembers the feel of the baseball bat and the cracking of his ribs. That particular incident had been his first real injury and it had laid him up for days. B had even fired him. Granted, it was temporary, but it had been enough to scare him onto the side of caution. “Not exactly.”

Vivian giggles at the look on his face. Dick stands and brushes off his gloved hands. He fiddled with his belt, putting off what he knows he has to do. Vivian looks up at him with a question in her eyes.

“I need to call a friend. He’ll help you get back to your mother.” 

Immediately, the girl flies to her feet. The sudden movement startles him, especially with her being so close to a three-story drop. Not enough to kill him, but then, he knows how to fall.

“A cop?”

Right. Even if Vivian isn’t a Gotham native—which she most definitely isn’t—she has surely been taught to be cautious of the police here. If you’re in danger here and your options are calling the police or taking the matter into your own hands and attempting to fight back, just take your chances and protect your face.

“He is a cop, but he’s a good one. I promise, he won’t let anyone hurt you. He’ll get you home.”

Despite the reassurance, Vivian looks unsure. She still has that dirty elephant in her grasp and she is twisting the ear again. She seems to be comforted by the soft feel of it. “What if mommy isn’t there anymore?”

Her words cause Dick’s chest to tighten. A child, afraid and alone. It’s all too familiar. 

He wants to tell her that her mother would never leave her, that no matter how long Vivian has been gone, her mother would never stop looking for her. He didn’t say any of that though, because he didn’t really know. It may have been the last thing Mary and John wanted, but Dick had been abandoned too. Even though they hadn’t walked out the front door knowingly leaving a little boy to fend for himself, a little boy _ had  _ been left to fend for himself.

If Bruce hadn’t come along, if he hadn’t been at the circus the night his parents died, Dick doesn’t want to think about where he’d be right now. Would he be the same man he is today? Would he be the same kind of man that fears the Bat? Would he even be alive?

Dick doesn’t know what to say to a child in this situation, but he knows what Bruce said to him at his parents’ funeral. He remembers how such simple words filled him with a sense of hope that he hadn’t felt since his parents fell.

So, he kneels down in front of a child who is afraid that she might be alone in the world and says, “No matter what happens, you’re never alone. I’ll make sure of it.”


	4. Liberandum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter adjusts. How well he’s adjusting is subjective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was short, so here’s almost 4K words and a surprise at the end :)

If the Federal government is consistent in one area, it’s their dismal coffee. No matter what state you’re in, which office and which department you’re in, the coffee will always taste like something that should be used to clean the rust off of cars. After over a decade, Peter can’t imagine what it is doing to his insides.

His first week in Gotham has been… fine. 

Of course, there has been an adjustment period. He’s not exactly used to the type of people that inhabit this city. For instance, the man that lives in the entryway of his apartment building. Yes, the entryway. Peter doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man enter an apartment, but every time he comes home he finds the man asleep at the bottom of the stairs.

Admittedly, that is something you would see in New York, but the difference is, people in New York don’t have a revolving wardrobe that includes every villain ever spotted in Gotham. 

When they were moving in, Peter and El noted that the man was dressed like the Riddler. The day Peter walked down the stairs and saw the man dressed as Catwoman, he quickly averted his eyes.

Possibly even more strange is the fact that no one bats an eye if you mention that someone by the name of ‘Condiment King’ ruined your date last night, or that a man dressed as a bat going around tying up criminals and leaving them at the police’s feet is commonplace.

Honestly, what the hell.

“Burke! You gonna stand around staring at the pretty clouds all day, or are we gonna get some work done?” 

Peter sighs. He longs for the bygone days of last week when he was playing cat and mouse with his criminal consultant. At least in those ancient times, he’d been the one calling the shots.

Special Agent Dante Graham is young, arrogant, and obnoxious in the exact opposite way that Neal Caffrey is. Where Neal has natural charisma, Graham is cold. Neal will smile and laugh with you as he snakes a hand in your pocket to steal your wallet; Graham will just shove a knife in your side and take it.

Not that he needs the money, of course. Graham makes it well known that he is financially secure, whether it be driving the most attention-grabbing, impractical car to work, or wearing the biggest, flashiest watch he can find. The man is not subtle with his wealth and in a town like this, he’s asking to get robbed.

As the heir to a shipping company, Graham has no need for money. In fact, Peter has no clue why the heir to a million-dollar legacy needs a job, let alone one where you can’t sit at a desk and slack off while you bully people into doing your work for you. 

Each agent has closure rates. When they don’t meet the bare minimum required to stay in their department, they’re usually transferred or assigned a different partner. 

When Peter arrived, he became the agent with the highest closure rate, which means he got saddled with the agent with the lowest, i.e., Agent Graham.

Peter tops off his mug and sets off towards the conference room. Sure, the coffee is abysmal, but he needs something to get through the next ten minutes.

“We have a case?” Peter asks.

Agent Graham is busy—and that word is used lightly—laying documents out on the table. Really, he’s just sort of tossing them, uncaring of where they end up, but Peter can’t complain. At least they’re on the table this time.

“Uh-huh,” Graham replies. 

Peter raises his eyebrows. After a few more seconds of nothing but the sound of paper hitting the table, he sighs. “Do you want to elaborate, or…” he trails off, motioning with his hand.

Graham glances up. He studies Peter for a moment before glancing back down at the file in his hand. He closes it and tosses it at Peter. “You’re a smart guy, you can read.”

Peter slaps a hand against the file, holding it to his chest. Before he can stop it, all the papers inside fall out and drift to the floor, spreading all over the room.

At least he didn’t spill his coffee.

Graham sits in one of the spinning chairs at the table and offers him only a grin. On Neal, it might have looked like the picture of innocence. On Graham, though, it was mocking and cold.

“Now, why’d you do that? Gonna be hard to find out what the case is if the police report is all over the floor,” he points out helpfully.

Peter nods. “Thank you, Graham. I thought I might try to do it the hard way, but that makes a lot more sense.”

Graham’s sharp grin only grows. He’s definitely got more than thirty-two teeth and they all look like fangs. Dangerous. Ready to strike. “What would you do without me, Burke?”

* * *

“We’re supposed to _preserve_ the crime scene,” one of the forensic guys says. He’s young, like most of them. Peter is one of the oldest guys in the office, a fact which hasn’t gone unmentioned by Graham. 

“I’m not _disturbing_ the crime scene, egghead.”

Peter begs to differ. Graham is reclined on the hammock, head laid on his interlocked hands, and looking so relaxed you’d never guess that there’s a dead woman two feet away from him.

“Everything in this backyard is a crime scene, including that hammock. You’re on the hammock and you’re not supposed to be, which means you’re _disturbing_ the crime scene.” The man sounds irritated, not exhausted like most of the agents that pick fights with Graham, which means that he hasn’t been around long. 

Peter sees the way the higher-ups let Graham’s comments slide off without so much as a frown in acknowledgment and decides to follow their example.

It’s only been a week, but Peter has learned to pick his battles with this guy. A biting remark about his accounting degree or the Yankees’ performance this season just doesn't warrant a response. A guy with his head that far up his ass can never be proven wrong anyway.

Graham stands up with a scoff. “Dude, she’s dead. She’s not gonna care if I–“

“Guys, look,” Peter decides to cut off the argument before it blows up. He doesn’t know yet if Graham is the type to resort to violence, but he wouldn’t put it past him.

The forensic tech and Graham step closer. At almost the same time, they respond.

“A brand?”

“So what?”

Peter rubs a hand over his face. How Graham made it through Quantico, he’ll never know.

“Yes, a brand.”

The tech drops down beside Peter, but Graham just crosses his arms and shrugs. “Plenty of hookers have tattoos. What the big deal?”

Picking his battles, Peter chooses not to correct his usage of the word ‘hooker.’ Instead, he focuses on the fact that Graham doesn’t know the difference between a tattoo and a _burn_ and that a brand isn’t the kind of body modification one would get if they had a choice.

“She’s not a _sex worker._ You should show them more respect, though, considering they’re your main source of companionship.”

Peter wants to smile, but he considers himself to be more professional than that. Once again, he shifts the focus back to the case. “What do you mean she wasn’t a sex worker? How do you know that?”

The tech looks confused momentarily, like he’d forgotten that they’re at a crime scene and not a bar. “Oh, right. Uh, the bruising around her wrists suggest she was bound.” 

Graham, fruitful as ever, interjects. “How do we know she wasn’t into it?”

The tech glances at him while Peter rolls his eyes. “Well, genius, typically, when people consent to being tied up, they don’t pull against their bindings to the point where their wrists bleed, do they?”

Peter can see Graham concocting his next verbal punch, so he cuts it off before it fully forms. “Okay, so she was tied up, presumably against her will, but by who?”

“Most likely the people who did that,” the tech says, gesturing to the brand. He motions behind them, waving another tech over. “Connor, get some photos of that brand. I want to run it through analysis at the lab, see if we can make out the logo.”

Well, at least the forensics team in Gotham seems to be somewhat better than New York. The agents back home have to walk the techs through everything, but here, they seem competent. 

Agents are really only needed for the broad strokes. Once they get the details of the crime, such as the cause of death, the murder weapon, and the victim profile, they don’t really need to be there anymore. 

Peter exits the property with Graham on his heels. 

“I’m driving,” he says, like there was going to be an argument. Peter only knows the city well enough to get from his apartment to the office. Beyond that, he needs a GPS or an escort. 

As he watches Graham climb in the car, he sighs. Sometimes he really regrets threatening Neal with prison anytime he did something that Peter thought was even slightly illegal. He really didn’t know a good thing when he saw it.

* * *

Peter is used to long nights at the office. It’s peaceful, all by himself. He doesn’t mind the work, either, as it gives him something to do. 

The tech from earlier—he really needs to learn the man’s name—dropped off the preliminary report as he headed out for the day and Peter has been trying to decode the logo for hours.

The photo is rough, but he thinks the burn might be a snake coiled around a lighthouse. Or a lamppost. Or anything, at this point. He’s tired and his sight is beginning to blur.

Yeah, he’s not going to get anywhere tonight. 

Peter sighs and packs the necessary files into his bag. He shuts his computer off and stands, cracking his back. 

The FBI office is one of many skyscrapers in Old Gotham. It isn’t the tallest or the shiniest. In fact, it doesn’t really stick out at all, one mass of concrete, metal, and glass among a sea of others. There’s one small sign that denotes it the FBI’s property, but other than that, it’s just a building. 

Peter honestly can’t say where the local government’s money goes, but it certainly isn’t law enforcement. The FBI building has a total of twenty-six floors, but he suspects that a majority of them are nothing more than empty floors and storage.

The GCPD is worse. Peter has only been in the precinct for a total of fifteen minutes, but he immediately noticed the rancid smell of tobacco and alcohol. The holding cells—which are in full view of the bullpen—are overcrowded and in disrepair. The criminals it holds are rowdy and belligerent and can be anyone from a harmless drunk to a serial arsonist to a mass murderer.

For all it’s depravity, Gotham is a beautiful place. The high rises around him soak the night in neon, creating a haze that encapsulates the city. The streets in Old Gotham are almost entirely brick and the buildings here are, appropriately, older, with hints of gothic revival in their large windows and pointed roofs.

Beautiful, yes, but still very much a relic of the past.

Gargoyles tell of a time when people still thought stone statues could ward off evil. Electronic billboards stick to the sides of century-old brick and dotted around the city are statues, tributes to people that time has outed as monsters.

Peter had felt it the second he stepped out of the car in front of his apartment for the first time—the city is alive, and he can easily get lost in its many capillaries. High above the city stands its beating heart, maybe it’s only hope of salvation: Wayne Enterprises.

Even in New York, Bruce Wayne is a prominent figure. His parents had given their hearts to the city only to lose their lives in one of its greasy arteries. Their blue blood stains the bricks of a forgotten alley in a forgotten part of the city and all there is to show for it is a few hospitals and a charity in their name.

Not for lack of trying on Bruce Wayne’s part though. Dig through the heaps of tabloids and you’ll find that the party boy has a heart of gold. He’s given out millions of dollars to the city’s poor and ill. Scholarships have been awarded and schools and hospitals have been built in his name. When he’s not on a strangely-timed vacation to some vague part of the world, Wayne can often be found throwing and attending charity galas. 

Peter’s heard that Wayne is a bit… _thick_ , but the man is trying to make his city a better place, and even if Gotham still bleeds corruption and misery, that’s more than Peter can say about most of the city’s inhabitants.

He’s not sure about the vigilantes he’s heard about, though. Whether the rumors are true or not, vigilantes are criminals. They aren’t trained to uphold the law, and in some cases, they even obstruct justice. Their methods can be violent and can endanger innocent lives.

Peter isn’t keen on costumed civilians doing his job for him—and that goes double for the _kids._

Who in the world would endanger a child like that anyway? They’d have to be borderline sociopathic.

* * *

“Which one is this again?”

“Riddler. It literally says it _right there._ ”

The office is unashamedly gathered around the television, eyes trained to the screen like this isn’t something that happens every day. Peter rolls his eyes but joins the crowd. 

It is news coverage of chaos in Robinson Park, just a few blocks away from the FBI building. The Riddler—and he can't believe that after a week in Gotham, Peter’s just _okay_ with that being a normal name to hear from cops—has set up traps in the middle of the park. Inside two cages are a man and a woman, both panicking as the bombs strapped to it count down from six minutes.

“Why aren’t the police doing something? Why aren’t _we_ doing something?” Peter asks. Their amusement is deeply disturbing, like this is a tv show and not actual people in danger mere blocks away.

One of the other agents—a woman by the name of Lila—turns to him with a sneer. “What, are you joking? The Riddler is Batman’s problem.”

Peter gets it now. Agents like this, that are so willing to shuck responsibility onto an untrained civilian, paved the way for Gotham’s reputation. Dangerous men like this cause destruction and misery and the people tasked with stopping them and keeping the public safe just sit and watch while it happens. They let one man in a cape (who is occasionally assisted by a boy no older than fifteen) do the heavy lifting.

Peter is not, and never will be, that kind of agent. He signed up for this job and he will do it to the best of his ability.

He slips out without anyone noticing. It’s easy, as they’re all too entertained watching their own failures.

Making it the park before the bombs go off will be tricky. He has about five and a half minutes before they blow. If he speeds, he can make it.

Of course, it’s never that easy. He’s nearly halfway there when he comes to a stop behind a school bus. Irritated, he slams his hand down on the horn and curses out the window. Not his proudest moment, but he’s in more of a hurry than any of these people.

At least El isn’t here to scold him.

He catches a glimpse of the disturbance ahead: a tipped cement truck had collided with a mail van. Envelopes are scattered across the intersection and cement slowly spreads across the street, seconds away from ruining thousands of people’s mail. The drivers of both vehicles are on the sidewalk arguing. No sign of the police or an ambulance. 

Neither driver seems to be injured, so Peter doesn’t feel as guilty when he puts the car in park and hops out. His athletic career is long behind him at this point, but his body is still in good shape, so he takes off in the direction of the park and hopes for minimal soreness the next day.

Peter hears his heart pound in his ears and his feet thump against the pavement, but all he sees is a bomb, ticking closer and closer to zero.

_Thump_

_Tick_

_Pound_

_Thump_

_Tick_

_Pound_

_Thump_

_Tick_

“Nightwing!”

Bystanders are shouting and pointing; at what, Peter doesn’t know. The park is in view now and he can’t afford to take his eyes off the cages.

News helicopters are swarming around the park, filming but making no move to help the stars of Gotham’s sick prime time television show.

_Boom: Murder in Park Circle!_

The police are here now, though they’ve done the bare minimum. Perimeters have been set up, keeping civilians out of the blast radius. The civilians, though, don’t seem to mind, as they look completely entranced in the looming deaths of two young girls and the officers aren’t much better.

And they are _young._ As Peter comes to a stop in front of the cages, he realizes that these girls are _children_ , no older than fifteen.

“Help us, please!” One of the girls pleads, tears in her eyes and fear making her tremble.

It took him way too long to get here. The clock only has a minute now, and exertion and nerves have made his hands shake. There’s a lock on the cages, but Peter couldn’t pick it if he tried.

But he has to try. There’s nothing else to do.

Peter fumbles with his keys, grabbing onto the pocket knife and unlatching. He pulls out a toothpick and chooses a knife small enough to fit in the lock.

Now, how the hell do you do this?

His hands are still shaking and he can hardly get the pick in, but he manages. It slides in and he immediately feels the pins slide out of the way. He sighs and glances at the clock.

_00:40_

Anxiety surges through him. If he were Neal Caffrey, this would be effortless. The man had a way with locks that only ever got him in trouble, but now Peter was regretting never taking him up on his offer to learn.

_‘Just in case,’_ he’d say with a smirk, the picture of innocence.

_00:30_

He feels the final pin slide into place and twists the knife.

Nothing.

He tries again. The pick bends dangerously. He nearly curses and tosses the plastic thing aside.

How did Neal make it look so easy?

_00:20_

_‘It’s an art, Peter. You can’t just shove a pick in there and expect it to work.’_

Peter can’t afford to give up, but he can’t help but feel dismayed. His pick was nothing but a flimsy piece of plastic. It’s not going to work.

_00:10_

He grabs one of the bars and looks the girl in the eye. He can’t get them out of there, and they’ve realized it. Both girls are crying harder now, and the sound of their sobs brings tears to his eyes. 

If he can’t save them, he’ll at least stay with them in their final moments. 

Well, they’re _his_ final moments, too.

He hopes El knows he loves her, and that he’s sorry.

“Look! Red Robin is here too!”

Peter intends to glance up, see what everyone is pointing at, but he never gets to. 

He’s flat on his back, staring up at the too-bright sky. The helicopters are still hovering above the park and in his hazy vision, they look like angels of death. Watching the carnage but not doing so much as lifting a finger to stop it.

His head hurts. He must have hit it when the bomb exploded and threw him back.

Wait.

He’s not dead.

“You have a deathwish?”

Peter pulls himself up, leaning back on his elbows. Black boots are feet away from him and he follows them up, taking in the red and yellow.

It’s a teenage boy (adult? He’s young, but Peter’s possibly concussed brain can’t make out more than that) and he’s looking at Peter like _he’s_ the one wearing a cape and mask.

It’s broad daylight and _May._ Why is he dressed like that?

“Hello? Can you hear me?” The boy’s voice sounds muffled, like he’s underwater. In fact, Peter can’t really see him either. He’s just a blur in the shape of a person.

“Ah, shit. I think you have a concussion.” He pulls what might be a phone out of his belt and taps something.

As he does… that, a thought cuts through the fuzz. 

“Where–“ Nausea hits him just as he speaks, causing him to close his eyes tightly and lay back down in an effort to ward off the feeling. The boy looks up from his phone, and it only takes seconds for him to catch on.

“The girls? They’re fine. My partner got them to safety and contained the explosion,” he explains. “Why did you do that? Why did you try to save them?”

Peter manages to look bemused. He reaches for his badge, which is miraculously still attached to his belt and holds it up for the kid to see. “‘S my job.”

The kid looks equally bemused, if not dumbfounded. His fingers have stopped moving, hovering above the screen. “If men like you did your job, I would be out of one. You were willing to die with them.”

Peter is silent. He forgot momentarily where he is. This city isn’t exactly known for its police presence, and this kid knows that. Of course he does, he’s been one of the ones picking up their slack.

“I couldn’t let them die alone.”

“Then you’re one of the good ones. Your colleagues couldn’t even be bothered to _show up,_ but you…” he trails off. Peter fixes his gaze on a leaky pipe overhead. “Ambulance is waiting for you. Up, come on.”

The kid is stronger than he looks. He manages to haul a nearly limp Peter off the ground and wraps his arm around him to keep him steady. 

When the ambulance is in sight, Peter, with his likely bruised brain and out of order priorities, has a realization.

“Hey. ‘S your name?” 

The kid snickers, but Peter’s foot catches a loose piece of sidewalk and he has to stop them both from tumbling to the ground. 

“You can call me Red Robin.”

Peter gasps. “Oh, I love your hamburgers.”

If Peter were in a better state, he would’ve heard the full-on cackles coming from Red Robin’s direction. Not from the kid, though. He looked irked.

“Gee, never heard that one before,” he mutters. 

Peter doesn’t pay much attention. The ambulance lights have captured his full attention. Two men are waiting nearby, and they take Peter from Red Robin’s grasp. 

The men begin shining a light in his eyes and taking his blood pressure. After making sure he’s settled, Red Robin pats his leg and turns to leave.

Red Robin looks up. Someone is perched on the side of the building, clad in black and blue. Red Robin pulls himself up onto the ledge and shoves the other man, who is giggling.

“Shut up, D.”

Peter watches silently. The other man was angled away from the ambulance, and by the time he turns, they’re both too far away for any features to be made out. 

Peter files it away for his Special Agent brain to pick apart. For now, though, he’s going to sleep.


	5. Deo Volente

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick and Tim do some detective-ing and Peter gets a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been longer than I expected. Truthfully, I’ve had this chapter almost completed for like a month. I just couldn’t bring myself to finish it. It’s been... a strange month.
> 
> Anyway, here’s the fifth chapter. I can’t say when the next one will be up, but hopefully it’s less than a month. If all goes well, it will definitely be sooner.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around.

“Vivian Diaconu, age eight. Mother is Georgeta Diaconu, father is unknown. Her mother reported her missing almost a year ago but nothing ever came of it. The girl was gone without a trace, until–“

“Until I found her chained in the back of a truck in Chinatown,” Dick cuts him off.

Tim breaks out of his clinical, detached preoccupation with the details and spins around in the oversized chair to face Dick. “Yeah.”

Dick sighs. After finding her, he dropped Vivian off at the GCPD, completely confident that she would be safe in Gordon’s hands. He’s a father, after all, and he’s one of the best men Dick knows. He knows that Gordon will take care of it.

So why can’t he let it go?

Vivian is far from the first child he’s rescued from the grip of men with bad intentions, so why does this case feel different? No matter what he does to try to take his mind off of it, his gut is telling him there’s something more to it.

“Dick, she’s safe. Her mother will pick her up and take her home and that will be the end of it.” 

Dick stands with his arms crossed, staring a hole through a tablet. “I know.”

“Then why are you still obsessed with that truck?”

Dick snaps his head up, pulling his attention away from the tablet and to his brother. Dick didn’t realize he noticed the pictures. “I’m not obsessed with the truck.”

Tim gives him a look.

“Look, there’s something off about it.”

Tim sighs and wipes a hand over his face. He looks tired. Dick knows what long nights down here in the cave do to you, and Tim is possibly the worst about ignoring physiological needs like sleep and nourishment. 

Such minor things.

Tim stands and walks over to him. “I doubt it, but let me see.”

Dick hands the tablet over. He and Tim had grown close back before Dick had left Gotham. Tim was a brilliant detective, and the member of the family most likely to entertain Dick’s more… harebrained shenanigans and he’s always right beside him when said shenanigans inevitably go sideways. 

Tim scrolls through the photos, stopping on one that shows the width of the walls. “Wait, you’re right. These walls are–“

“Right?”

“Are you sure this isn’t an refrigerated truck? Like, without the ice?”

Dick shakes his head. “No. There’s no condensers, no evaporators and no compressors. Nothing to keep the truck cold.”

Tim nods. His fingers tap against the metal table for a moment before he stands up. “Where’s the truck now?”

Dick grins. “Impound.”

* * *

“What’s the last thing you remember?” The doctor asks while shining a light in his eyes.

It’s the sixth time they’ve done that since he got here. He counted.

Peter suppresses a sigh, but only for El’s sake. She insisted he let the doctor do whatever necessary to make sure he was okay, and somehow that turned into an overnight stay for what turned out to be a mild concussion. “I was trying to help those girls. They were locked in cages in the park. I couldn’t pick the lock but it didn’t matter anyway. I ran out of time. And then…”

The doctor and El both raise their eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. El shoots the doctor a worried glance. “Peter?” She prompts.

“Hamburgers.”

The doctor looks bewildered. He tucks his penlight away in his white coat. “Hamburgers?”

Peter feels his cheeks heat up. “Red Robin showed up. And someone else. He saved me and the girls.”

The doctor seems satisfied. He nods. “Right. The vigilante.” His distaste for the hero shows on his face. “Well, there is no sign of swelling, so you can go home today. Just lay off the heroics for a while.”

The nurse had given him something for nausea an hour prior, but the doctor's smirk has his stomach flipping. That whole thing had been  _ televised _ . And his coworkers had been  _ watching. _

El bids the doctor goodbye and begins helping him change. He moves on autopilot as his thoughts shift to the vigilante duo.

* * *

Elizabeth is driving them both home when his phone rings. He’s half asleep, letting the bumps and potholes that nearly wreck their alignment lull him to sleep. Each time they hit one that’s too deep for him to sleep through, he mentally berates the Gotham City government for making his headache ten times worse.

“You going to get that?” Elizabeth asks.

Right. His phone.

He finds it in the bag at his feet containing his belongings. He groans at the way his head throbs when he bends over, but finds himself smiling when he catches a glimpse of the name on his screen.

“Miss me already?” 

Jones laughs. “You know it. It’s been… a week.”

Peter scoffs. “Yeah, you can say that again.”

Jones, astute as always, catches the strain in his voice. “Boss?”

“Nah, I’m alright.” He feels Elizabeth glaring at him. “And you know you don’t have to call me boss anymore.”

The line is silent for a beat. And then, “Yeah, I know. It’s just weird, you know?”

Peter nods, even though the movement jostles his head. The morning sun is far too bright, and he fights off a wave of nausea. Desperate for a distraction, he carries on the conversation. “So, how are things back home?”

He hears Jones’ hesitation. A seed of worry plants itself in his gut the longer the silence drags out. “That’s actually why I called.”

Peter sits up straight and ignores the questioning glance from Elizabeth. He knows. He already knows. There’s only one man that can cause Clinton Jones an ounce of nervousness.

“Jones?”

“Peter, Caffrey’s gone.”

It feels like a punch to the gut. He expected it, yeah, but it didn’t make hearing it any easier. He’d been doing so good that a part of Peter thought that maybe he wouldn’t run. Maybe he would serve out the rest of his sentence so he could live as a free man.

But still, there had been that sliver of doubt, that tiny ‘what if?’ He should’ve listened, should’ve let that lingering doubt be enough reason to put him back in prison because where Neal Caffrey is concerned, Peter is hardly ever wrong.

“What? When?”

Jones takes a breath. “The day after you left. But listen–“

“Jones! That’s almost a week!”

“I know! I know, but Peter, I didn’t think it was right to call you. I figured you work in Gotham now, and he’s not your problem anymore, so I didn’t… I don’t know. I guess I should’ve called anyway,” Jones says, sounding regretful.

It’s not like him to ramble, and that’s the thing that keeps Peter grounded. He isn’t angry, not at Jones. At Caffrey, maybe, but Jones only did what he thought was right. He’s a good agent, a smart guy. It’s not his fault that Neal is impossible to hold down and he can’t blame Jones for failing to do what even Peter struggled to do.

Elizabeth places a hand on his knee. She knows, from nights spent alone while her husband tracked down this very criminal, that he has once again escaped. Only now, it’s not Peter’s problem. 

“No, I understand. You’re right, it’s not my problem, but I’m glad you told me.” Peter rubs a hand through his hair, feeling a familiar frustration runs through him. “Any idea where he might’ve gone?”

“That’s what I called to ask you. His apartment was empty and June didn’t know anything. Every time I bring up roadblocks and wanted posters—you know, the ways you caught him before—Hughes just blows me off.”

That is odd. Hughes, the straight-laced, by the book agent that served as Peter’s guiding light during the initial case now wants nothing to do with it? 

“You don’t think he’s like…” Jones trails off, seemingly finding the right words. “You don’t think Caffrey… bribed him, do you?”

Peter snorts. The idea is far too absurd to even consider. “You mean Neal Caffrey, the same man who prides himself on his wits and charm, resorting to bribing Reese Hughes, who has an obsession with criminals receiving their due? Yeah, I don’t think so.”

Jones chuckles. “Stupid idea, I know. It’s just… something’s off about the whole thing. Caffrey vanishes, Hughes doesn’t seem to care. I don’t really know what to think.”

“Yeah, I understand. It is strange though. Keep me in the loop. And make sure you check Mozzie’s hideouts. The little guy is clever, but not that clever. We managed to find three of them, but I know there’s more,” Peter says.

“Will do,” Jones says. Peter can hear him smiling. “It was good talking to you, Peter.”

Peter smiles. “You too. Come visit sometime.”

Jones grimaces. “Ooh, maybe you should come here.”

“Oh, come on. Gotham isn’t that bad.”

“Whatever you say. I don’t think I want to find out.” 

Peter laughs and they hang up. As soon as his phone is in his pocket, the smile slides off his face. It’s not his problem, he knows, but it wouldn’t hurt to look into it anyway. 

“He took off, huh?”

Peter nods. He’s exhausted. The incident in the park and then a night in the hospital drained his energy. At this point, he’s running on fumes.

“Where do you think he is?” She asks, tapping the steering wheel.

Peter exhales. “If only I could begin to understand the mind of Neal Caffrey, hun.”

* * *

“I told you, I didn’t do anything,” Tyson says, chains rattling against the metal table in the middle of the interrogation room.

As if he hadn’t heard  _ that  _ a thousand times...

Gordon is typically straight-laced, but where crimes against children are concerned, he does allow the Bat-Clan some leeway with suspects. In this case, he has turned off the cameras that point at the interrogation room door and made sure that no one comes near. Gordon knows that, if left to their own devices, the GCPD will never solve this case, so it’s better left to the ones who aren’t bound by the same rules and regulations.

Eli Tyson is the only suspect still in police custody. He is one of the men Nightwing encountered the previous night, and possibly one of the men responsible for abducting Vivian.

Nightwing sighs. “You were helping known gang members move crates into a storage container.”

“I didn’t know what was in ‘em!” He says, wide-eyed and bordering on frantic.

“You pulled a gun on me when I showed up. What did you think was in there, Eli?”

Tyson sighs. His cuffed hands flatten against the table and he closes his eyes as he tries to calm himself. “Look, I got outta Blackgate a month ago. I’m tryin’ to go straight. For my kid.”

Nightwing says nothing, he simply studies the man. He’s good at reading people. A product of being raised by the Batman, he supposes. But really, if he thinks about it, those seeds were planted long ago, among big tops and spotlights and fortune-tellers.

It’s an invaluable skill, whether he’s a circus performer, a con-man, or a vigilante. 

“You know what they say about people with long fingernails.” His voice is quiet. He’s distracted, his expression soft as his head gets stuck in the past. ”They can’t be trusted to keep their noses clean.”

Tyson looks up at him, confused. “Do they say that?”

“I don’t know, but my mom did.” 

Tyson scrubs his hands over his face, jostling the cuffs. He’s getting agitated. Nightwing can see it in the way his shoulders tense and his eyebrows knit. “I don’t care what your mom says. Let me outta here.”

It’s supposed to sting, but time and a school filled with intolerant rich kids have allowed him to build up thick skin. Barbs like that, no matter how small, can’t touch him anymore. 

Nightwing shrugs. “I don’t have the authority to let you go. Though, I don’t think the people that  _ do _ have the authority would let you out either.”

Tyson slams his hands against the table. Whether it’s out of frustration or an intimidation tactic, Nightwing doesn’t know. Doesn’t really care.

“Stop playing with me! I didn’t do anything wrong and I want to go home!”

Nightwing pushes himself off the wall and walks up to the table. He places a hand on each end of the table and rests his weight on them, looking down at the man. “You’re not going home, Eli. You’re a felon and you were arrested with a gun in your possession.”

Tyson narrows his eyes, but doesn’t comment.

“Just…” Nightwing exhales, and recollects his thoughts. He’s distracted. That’s dangerous. “Tell me who the other men were and what they were doing there.”

Tyson shifts in his seat. He’s got that look on his face, the one that says he won’t be talking. He’s been to prison, he knows what happens to snitches. 

Just when the silence stretches too long and threatens to become impenetrable, Tyson withers. “If I do, will you cut me a deal?”

Annoyance bubbles up in his chest, but he’s never been one to let it show. He swallows it down and tilts his head back, looking down his nose at Tyson. 

Really? Information that may pertain to a girl’s kidnapping is a tradable commodity to him? Well, of course it is. Nightwing doesn’t think Tyson is responsible for Vivian’s abduction, but he certainly is complicit. He may not be directly involved in the crime, but he’s no angel, either.

For that reason, Nightwing is able to ignore his guilt when he resigns himself to telling blatant lies in order to get what he wants. That’s what he’s done for years anyway, right?

So, although he has no power to, he says, “What do you want?”

And Tyson, even with the knowledge that police officers don’t wear domino masks and blue birds on their chest, buys it. He sits back in his chair with an air of arrogance, like he’s won. “I want immunity.”

Nightwing snorts. “Yeah, alright.”

Tyson looks surprised, but quickly replaces it with nonchalance. “It’s that easy?”

No, it isn’t. Tyson would get at least a year in prison, but it suits his purpose to agree with him. 

“It’s that easy,” Nightwing confirms. “Now, tell me who the others are.”

Tyson is quiet for a bit. “They never gave me their real names. Super shady dudes, both of ‘em.”

* * *

Nightwing finds Red Robin in the impound lot. He’s found the box truck, and he is in the open cargo space.

Nightwing stands a few feet away and crosses his arms, content to watch the world’s second best detective work. His head’s not really in a good place for prolonged concentration anyway.

“Find anything?”

Red Robin doesn’t startle, not that Nightwing expected him to. It’s pitch black out here, but their masks have night vision lenses, so they don’t need to risk exposure by using a flashlight as Red Robin examines the lining of the truck’s walls.

“Maybe.”

Nightwing raises an eyebrow. “Great. Want to share?”

Red Robin pulls a tool from his utility belt that almost resembles a cell phone. He hits a few buttons before pointing the thing at the wall. A few seconds later, the device beeps and he pulls it away. “The walls are lined with lead.”

_ That  _ pulls him out of his tangled thoughts. He steps up onto the back of the truck. He narrows his eyes, scrutinizing the wall where two of the metal panels meet, like maybe he’ll see what Red Robin sees if he looks hard enough. 

“Lead? You think she’s a meta?” He asks.

Red Robin hums in agreement. “And if they knew to line the walls with lead, it means she was targeted specifically. They knew that they had to contain her.”

Nightwing shifts his weight, feeling antsy. Even after all these years, these types of cases never sit well with him. Vivian is a  _ child, _ meta or not. She doesn’t deserve to be chained up like property.

Red Robin turns away from the wall and jumps out of the truck. Nightwing follows suit and pulls the truck shut so they can swing away into the night before any security guards notice they’re there.

Once they have crossed into Midtown, they stop to rest on a rooftop. Nightwing perches on a gargoyle—ever the drama queen—while Red Robin dangles his legs off the side of the building.

“Did Tyson give you anything?” He asks as they both follow the flight path of what might be a crow.

Nightwing shakes his head. “Nothing we didn’t already know,” he says. His eyes find the nondescript tip of the only FBI field office in the city. It wasn’t a coincidence. He couldn’t have picked it out if he hadn’t been spending multiple hours watching over it. 

Living in Gotham gives you certain… quirks. And when you live in Gotham for a long time, those quirks turn into full blown compulsions. 

For instance: it’s nearly impossible to walk into any subway station and not know every exit, just in case today is the day Scarecrow decides to unleash his Fear Gas on the public. 

Banks are a constant source of anxiety, so you never want to be in one for too long. You never know when Joker might decide that his idea of a hilarious joke is armed robbery. 

It’s not only the big guys you have to watch out for. Everyone has heard of the Riddler and Penguin, but you never know if the guy that just passed you on the street is a recently ‘rehabilitated’ Arkham patient.

There’s a reason Gotham isn’t for everyone. There’s a reason law enforcement has such a high turnover rate and such a low closure rate. Gotham isn’t a place of honor. There’s no such thing as good and evil here. It’s just the wicked and the ones who try to do the right thing.

Every time he thinks of Peter, his heart aches, because he knows the incident in the park will happen again. It will happen to someone else, another innocent, and Peter will be there. Peter isn’t hardened to those kinds of things. He has too good a heart to just look the other way, and he will run headfirst into danger without a second thought if it means that someone else might not suffer. 

Not that Dick wouldn’t. They both signed up to do a job with the prospect of death being very real—almost expected. 

The difference is, Dick has nothing to lose anyway. He does what he does under the cover of moonlight, wearing a mask and hiding who he is. If he dies doing this, only a handful of people will mourn because they’re the only ones that know. No one will know his sacrifice, and he’s at peace with that.

Peter, on the other hand, has a wife. Dick knows that Peter is still close with his dad, and talks to him frequently. Peter has friends (whether Dick can still be considered one is doubtful), and a life with no secrets. He doesn’t…  _ Gotham  _ doesn’t deserve him.

“Nightwing. Hello?”

Nightwing is pulled out of his thoughts by a slap on his shoulder. “What?”

Red Robin studies him silently. He’s scrutinizing him like the tiniest detail might give some indication of what is wrong with him. It’s  _ really  _ familiar. 

“ _ What? _ ” Nightwing repeats, exasperation coiled like a snake.

“You’ve been off all night. What’s up?”

Nightwing stands, balancing on the gargoyle. They always say  _ don’t look down  _ when you’re at a fatal height, but he’s never understood the terror in being at gravity’s mercy. Falling is part of flying, after all, and that seems to be at the top of the list when people are given the hypothetical choice of superpowers.

The answer isn’t simple, but the one he gives Tim is. “Just distracted. I’ll be fine after a nap.”

But where Batman is more intuitive in the realm of tangible things, Tim is quite adept with emotions. It had surprised all of them. Bruce certainly hadn’t been the one to teach Tim that.

“It’s that agent, isn’t it? Peter?” 

Yes, it is Peter. Every time Dick is idle for more than a minute, his mind paints the most gruesome images, constantly reminding him of what could very possibly happen to one of his closest friends. 

Dick is terrified that one day he’ll turn on the news and see Vicki Vale’s face, eyes wide like a predator as she reports on an FBI agent’s death. 

Once his feet are back on the flat surface of the rooftop, the thrill has left him. Now he just feels exhausted to the bone. “Yeah. Sort of.”

Red Robin kicks his legs out as he stares at the sky. There isn’t much to see. The smog makes sure most stars are snuffed out, and the few that are visible are dim, like Christmas lights on the verge of giving out. “Why don’t you just go see him? It’s not like he can arrest you.”

Tim’s right. The second he stepped foot on a plane out of New York, Neal Caffrey was no more, both digitally and in spirit. Any trace of him disappeared, as fragile as the idea of him, gone in the wind.

“It’s not that easy.”

Red Robin turns to him. “Why not?”

Nightwing doesn’t know what to say. While Tim is excellent at sniffing out negative emotions, it doesn’t magically make him good at talking about them. Dick isn’t much better.

_ I don’t want to have to face him when he finds out Neal Caffrey was a lie.  _

_ He’ll hate me. _

_ He may not want to know me. _

Although it started out as a con, Dick did enjoy working with Peter. His life with the FBI was the closest thing he could get to his ideal life: a legitimate career in law enforcement with friends, and the ability to be care free. New York isn’t as rough as Gotham.

So, he settles on, “It’s complicated.”

Which is true. But, in reality, he’s mostly just afraid.

He’s always been told that he’s wound too tight, that sometimes he gets so preoccupied with the little things that he can’t relax. Granted, it had mostly been Babs and Kory, but they knew him better than most people. The only other person who comes close is Peter, and he only knew a little piece of him.

Because of that, Dick immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusion. It helps sometimes, doing what he does, but in his everyday life it’s mostly a hindrance. In this case, it’s pushing him away from his friend.

At first, he doesn’t hear the sirens. They are, after all, a near constant presence in the city. Seconds later, his earpiece crackles to life and Alfred announces that there’s been a robbery in the Financial District. An  _ armed  _ robbery. 

Nightwing tries not to let out a relieved sigh. He really needs a distraction.


	6. Coram Deo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter does some investigating. Graham, as usual, isn’t much help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter, but it’s necessary for the plot.
> 
> On the bright side, Vivian is in this one. 
> 
> I’ll try to have the next one out a little sooner.

It takes a week before he’s cleared for field duty. The doctor takes a quick glance at him and writes him a note before sending him out the door. It’s that easy.

Of course, actually being at work isn’t so simple. 

The coffee in his hand is too cool, the thin paper cup bending precariously. It has the distinct taste of having been left in the pot for a few hours too long, and he decides it's better for his own health to just toss it in the trash can beside his desk.

“Morning, Burke.”

He sighs. It’s too early for this.

Peter looks up, immediately noting the derisive smirk and lax posture of his reluctant new partner. “Morning.”

“You trying to put Batman out of a job?”

Peter feels his head throb. He’s been expecting this. He’s only surprised that it hadn’t been the  _ first  _ thing Graham mentioned.

“Finch is pissed.” Graham studies his fingernails, trying to give off the impression that he’s not enjoying this. 

Finch is hard to pin down. Peter has heard rumors from the guys in the forensic unit, but he’s never had any reason to suspect his boss is shady. Most people here seem to think otherwise.

Peter grits his teeth. “Because I did my job?”

Graham looks up. The smirk is gone, but his eyes give away his mirth. “Because you disobeyed an order. You ran straight into a dangerous situation without backup.”

“It’s not like  _ my partner  _ was much help.”

Graham straightens. He shoves his hands in his pockets, his demeanor suddenly flat and cold. “Be careful, Burke. Guys like you never last long around here.”

Honestly, Peter doesn’t really care what he means by that. Graham is young, and far too confident.  _ He’s  _ the kind of guy that doesn’t last long in the FBI. 

Peter shakes his head as Graham disappears around the corner. He’s never worked with someone like Graham. As competitive as the FBI can be at times, it’s never resulted in an outright dislike for his colleagues. Though he hasn’t really spoken to the others, Graham seems to be the least tolerable agent here.

Peter is almost convinced that he had been saddled with the younger man on purpose. Almost like a punishment.

To his right, a door opens.

“Burke!”

Maybe he should’ve stayed home.

* * *

Benjamin Finch is clearly a man that is used to physical labor, but age and a desk job within the FBI have softened him around the middle. His hair is gone and the wrinkles on his face give off the impression that he is a stone's throw away from retirement.

Peter sits in the chair on the other side of Finch’s desk. He’s gearing himself up for his scolding when Finch speaks.

“What you did was reckless, Burke.” Finch’s expression remains as unchanging as ever, his bushy eyebrows set in a scowl.

“I know. I know I shouldn’t have gone in alone, but I did my job. Those girls are alive,” Peter reasons.

Finch leans back in his chair, not breaking eye contact. “You’re right.”

Peter’s brows knit. Graham had made it seem like Finch was ready to put him on desk duty, but he seems almost satisfied. 

Finch pulls a file from a drawer and places it on his desk. “The news is going on and on about the FBI’s ‘professional handling’ of the event. Law enforcement gets a bad rap in this town, so you can imagine what this will do to our reputation.”

Ah. If the incident hadn’t been televised, it’s likely he  _ would  _ receive a reaming. Instead, he’s being praised for… giving their reputation a boost?

Finch seems to be unaware of the implications of what he’s just said. “While you were on medical leave, Graham found us a lead,” he says as he hands Peter a file.

Peter gives him a glance before opening it. Inside is the personal information of an eight-year-old girl—name, address, parents. He flips a few pages and finds a police report.

“She was missing?”

Finch hums. “For a year. She was brought to the GCPD about a week ago before we realized our case and this one were connected.”

Peter’s eyebrows shoot up. “Connected? How?”

Finch gestures towards the file. “We think she was abducted by the same group that this logo belongs to.” He pulls out a piece of paper. Printed on it in striking detail is a lighthouse with a snake coiled around it. It’s the logo that Peter had been trying to decipher a week ago.

Peter studies it for a moment before nodding. “So, you think this was premeditated?”

Finch lays the paper down before heaving a great sigh. He shrugs. “We don’t know. We don’t have all the pieces of the puzzle, which is why I need you and Graham to go down to Crime Alley and talk to the girl. See what you can get from her mother, too.”

Wonderful. More time spent alone with Graham is more time Peter could spend slamming his own head against a wall. Both options would be equally enjoyable.

But Peter is a good agent, and he’s always done what is expected of him, so he stands, gives Finch a polite smile, and goes to find Graham.

* * *

Peter’s mother always told him not to judge a book by its cover, but everything you need to know about Crime Alley is right in the name.

Officially named Park Row, Crime Alley is home to all sorts of wrongdoing. Illegal brothels, casinos and drug dens operate here, as well as being home to the poor and desperate.

The first thing Peter notices about the area is the overwhelming stench of cigarettes and urine. The second is the pair of roses lying at his feet. The dichotomy confuses him and he stops in his tracks. 

There’s no obvious source. Nothing grows here, the ground nothing but rain and oil and god-knows-what-else soaked concrete. There’s no flower vendors nearby, no graveyards they could’ve strayed from.

“This is where the Waynes died,” Graham says. His tone is monotone, face blank. If he has some connection to the Waynes, it isn’t obvious from looking at him. Then again, even if Graham’s family and the Waynes had been the best of friends at one time, Graham isn’t the type to lose sleep over their deaths.

Peter turns toward his partner. The man is standing there looking quite literally like a million bucks. Pedestrians eye him as they pass, taking in his fancy watch and sleek suit and Peter wonders how long it will take before one of them tries to snag the watch. 

It still stings to look at him sometimes. Neal could get on his nerves, but he had an undercurrent of charm. Graham is all arrogance and disdain with no redeeming qualities.

And Neal… try as he might he can’t forget about Neal. He’s not Neal’s official handler anymore, but he still has access to certain files and reports. He’s checked Interpol and the Marshal databases for any sign of Neal. So far, nothing.

Peter worries about that far more than he’ll ever admit. 

“Burke.”

He comes back to himself. Graham is standing on the stoop of an apartment building, waiting for him with an impatient frown.

Peter nods. “Right.”

* * *

The inside of the apartment complex isn’t faring much better. The carpet in the hallway is dotted with stains and disturbingly wet. The paint on the walls is bubbled and peeling and there’s mismatched color where someone had apathetically patched over a hole in the wall. There’s a lingering smell that he can’t quite place, though he’s not sure he wants to. Beside him, Graham looks equally uncomfortable.

They stop in front of a door with what looks like fist-shaped dents in the metal. Graham nudges Peter. 

“Knock. It’s bad enough that my shoes are touching this carpet, but I’m not touching that door. I might catch something.” 

Peter shakes his head. The place is in disrepair and is in dire need of a cleaning, but Peter isn’t under any illusions that Graham is only trying to protect himself from illness. The man grew up wealthy, and he carries himself like he’s never seen an apartment that wasn’t so clean you could eat off the floors.

So, Peter knocks and as they wait for an answer, he closes his eyes and tries to pretend he’s anywhere else. Tries to pretend it’s Neal beside him instead, commenting on the horrid motel art hanging in the lobby and not sneering at the inhabitants passing them in the halls.

Peter hears movement inside the apartment, then the sounds of locks sliding before a woman appears. She’s young. Peter glances at Graham, silently asking if this is even the right address. Graham, though, is rather unhelpful. He’s studying the interior of the apartment, the look on his face saying he’d rather take his chances licking a subway railing than enter the apartment.

“Georgeta Diaconu?” Peter asks when it becomes clear he isn’t getting help from his partner.

“Yes?” She answers, keeping herself somewhat behind the door as if she’s shielding herself from them. Peter can’t say he blames her for being cautious.

“I’m Agent Burke,” he holds a hand over his chest, then gestures to his left. “This is Agent Graham. We’re here to talk to you about your daughter’s disappearance.” 

Georgeta is an immigrant, but she’s clearly had bad experiences with the police, Gotham or otherwise. She glances between the two of them. “No, thank you.”

She goes to shut the door, but Peter steps a little closer. “Ma’am, we think your daughter’s disappearance is connected to a case of ours.”

Georgeta freezes. She looks to be debating with herself for a moment. Before the seconds can stretch into minutes, Peter sees her features soften. “You will catch the man who did this?”

Peter hesitates. The first rule of speaking with witnesses is to never make promises you can’t keep. Georgeta is a single mother, alone in a dangerous city in a foreign country. Peter can’t imagine her struggle, but he  _ can _ empathize with her. He wants to make that promise, he wants to tell her that the man who took her daughter will be found and locked away forever, never able to hurt anyone else. 

The truth is, they may never find him. GCPD recently came across a man that they believe may have been involved in Vivian’s kidnapping, but the more they had questioned him, the more glaringly obvious it became that he had nothing to do with it. Right now, they were at a dead end.

So, he takes a page from Neal’s book. He allows his hard, tense edges to melt into something he hopes comes across as comforting because he knows that’s what she needs. She’s afraid, but she’s their only lead. 

“I think, with your help, we have a pretty good shot.” He doesn’t know how well he’s doing in his effort to comfort her, especially with Graham’s cold presence beside him, but Georgeta seems to be paying attention solely to him. 

A few more seconds pass. Upstairs, there’s heavy boots clamoring down the hallway. Next door, yelling. Through the window to their right, Peter can make out what he thinks might turn into a fist fight in the next few breaths. A lifetime passes in the space of a few heartbeats, and Peter prepares himself for disappointment, their only lead slipping through their fingers like sand.

“Ok. Come in,” Georgeta says.

Peter exhales.

* * *

The interior of the apartment is small, just enough for Georgeta and Vivian. The kitchen is visible from the front door, only a few feet wide. The only bedroom in the apartment is to their left, big enough for a bed and nothing else. 

The wires sticking out of the wall are definitely a hazard, but Georgeta taped them to the wall and put a chair in front of them to keep them out of Vivian’s reach.

The girl in question sits on the floor before them, attention fully focused on the snowy reception of the television. Occasionally, the channel cuts out completely, but the girl taps the side of the television and that remedies it for a few minutes.

Georgeta returns from the kitchen with two mugs in her hand. She makes her way to the couch Peter and Graham are sitting on. Well,  _ Peter  _ is sitting; Graham is perched on the very edge, trying to give off the impression that he isn’t three seconds from bolting out of the apartment altogether and failing miserably. 

“I am sorry, I only have decaf. Is that okay?” Georgeta asks as she sits the mugs down on the coffee table in front of them.

Graham opens his mouth to comment, but Peter rushes to cut him off before he says something that Peter’s mother would blanch at. “Decaf is wonderful, thank you.”

Georgeta nods and sits down on the fold out chair serving as living room furniture. She folds her arms in front of, a blatant sign of stress. Peter can tell she isn’t comfortable with police, and with the way the GCPD brushed off her daughter’s disappearance so quickly, he can’t imagine her faith in them has improved much.

Peter rests his elbows on his knees and tries to ignore the way Graham is folded into himself, doing everything he can to touch as little as possible. Peter feels a surge of anger at the sight of him and he hopes Georgeta doesn’t notice Graham’s demeanor.

“We’ll make this quick. Could you tell us what happened the day Vivian went missing?” Peter shifts uneasily. He isn’t used to interviewing witnesses in crimes where the most valuable thing isn’t a painting or a gem. 

Georgeta rubs her hands up and down her arms in a self soothing gesture. “I… I don’t really know.”

Peter raises an eyebrow.

Georgeta sighs. “About a month before Viv went missing, I…” she trails off as she collects her thoughts. Suddenly, she looks ashamed. “I was in a difficult situation. My electricity had been shut off, all of my grocery money had to go toward rent… I didn’t have a choice. I did what I had to do.”

Peter leans in. “What did you do?”

Georgeta glances back at the girl. Her attention is still fully glued to the television. Some of the tension in Georgeta’s shoulders vanishes, like the reminder that her daughter is within arms reach grounds her. “I took her to the orphanage on the westside. Pinkney. I just… I just wanted her to be happy. I thought that someone else could provide for her what I couldn’t.”

Peter nods slowly. “You gave up custody? That wasn’t in Vivian’s file.”

Georgeta laughs, harsh and wet like she’s on the verge of tears. “No, it wouldn’t be, would it?”

“What do you mean by that?” Peter asks. 

“If those people had done their jobs, Vivian never would have been taken. It only makes sense that they didn’t make note of the fact that I’m not fit to be her mother.” 

Peter knows he should say something,  _ anything  _ to make her feel better, but right now he is drawing a blank. There’s a version of Elizabeth that lives inside his mind, guiding him and helping him translate his jumbled thoughts into soft, soothing words that would comfort even the most distraught woman or child. Right now, she doesn’t seem to be around. 

“You don’t seem to have much faith in them.”

Georgeta glances at him incredulously and he knows that had been the wrong thing to say. “Of course not! They didn’t even notice that Viv was gone until I showed up. When I asked to see her, they told me that they didn’t have a child by her name on record.” She lets out a sigh as she fights the tears. 

Peter makes note of that. If the orphanage is negligent in their administrative duties, how many more children have fallen through the cracks? Unless the orphanage’s failure to document Vivian’s stay had been purposeful. 

Peter pushes the thought away. They have no proof that the orphanage had ill intentions, so it’s best not to assume. 

“Right. We will definitely look into it,” Peter stands. Graham pops up beside him like he’d been wound up and ready to pounce for a while now. “We really appreciate your help, Ms. Diaconu.”

Georgeta wipes her eyes and stands. “Of course. Please, Agent Burke, find this man. Find him, and never let him see the light of day.”

And Peter knows, he  _ knows,  _ that he should never make promises. This line of work is too volatile, too uncertain for guarantees. Hell, everyday he walks out his front door, he knows that there’s a good possibility he won’t be walking back in. But still, he looks into this desperate mother’s eyes, and he can’t help himself.

“I’ll do everything in my power to find him. He won’t get away with this.”

Whether or not Georgeta believes him, she looks a little lighter, a little younger. She nods.

“Woah, what the hell?” Peter spins around toward the voice. Graham is standing in the doorway, looking all too eager to leave. His eyes are locked on something beneath his foot, something Peter can’t see from his position on the other side of the couch.

Vivian, previously enamored with the television, jerks at the sound. When she spots the cause of the commotion, she pushes herself off the floor and darts over to Graham.

“Careful with that! He saved me!” Vivian wrenches the object away from Graham’s grip and squeezes it tight between her arms.

Georgeta rushes over to the pair. “I am so sorry. She’s been rather attached to this doll lately.”

Georgeta turns Vivian away by her shoulders, guiding her back toward the living room. As the two of them pass by Peter, he catches a glimpse of something black and blue, warped by the child’s death grip.

He doesn’t know what comes over him. Honestly, he can’t recall a time when he willingly initiated conversation with a kid he wasn’t related to. But something about the girl’s ferocious protectiveness over a doll strikes him as noteworthy. Even if it turns out to be nothing, at least he tried.

“Hey,” he says, as gentle as he can manage. “What do you have there?”

Vivian stops and lifts her gaze off the floor. She turns around to study him, probably gauging his character in that uncanny way all kids do. She must find him up to her standards, because she relents her grip and allows him to see the doll.

“It’s Nightwing,” she says. “He saved me.”

The doll is about the size of his hand. It’s a figure with black hair and a black uniform with a blue bird across the chest. His eyes are covered by a black mask, but he doesn’t look unkind. 

In fact, the uniform looks a bit familiar…

“Did he?” Peter asks, mostly because he’s at a loss. He racks his brain, trying to figure out where he’s seen the logo, but he’s coming up short.

A shock of blue among a blur of black… he remembers, but he can’t make out any identifying features. It’s as if he’s seeing the memory through foggy glass.

“Burke! We’re kinda on a time crunch here.” 

Peter straightens and resists the urge to glare at Graham. The man is standing with one foot inside the apartment threshold and the other out. They are  _ not  _ on a time crunch, but Graham looks to be a hair's breadth away from combusting. Peter has a lead to follow up on, but it isn’t really time sensitive, so he’s almost tempted to let Graham sweat. Although, if they leave now, Peter can make it home in time to have lunch with El.

Peter turns, bids both Georgeta and Vivian—and Nightwing—goodbye, and heads out the door. 

Graham is a few feet in front of him, his pace faster than Peter’s ever seen. Maybe Peter would take a jab at him normally, but right now, something is off. There’s something he should be remembering and it’s bothering him. Like popcorn stuck between your teeth. 

“Graham,” Peter calls. They’re outside now, and Graham seems a little more like himself. His ever-present smugness has returned and his posture is just as cocky as ever.

“What do you know about Nightwing?”

“The vigilante?” he asks absently. His hands brush invisible dirt off his shoulders and torso. Peter rolls his eyes. “Not much. He crashed one of my dad's charity galas once. That was pretty cool. Some people think he used to be Robin.”

“And you?”

Graham inhales deeply, then plasters a large grin on his face. “I think we should stop by that Korean barbeque place on the way back to the office, Pete. I’m starving.”

Peter shakes his head as he shoves the keys in the ignition. “Call me Pete again and I’ll let you starve,” he mutters. “No, I’m eating lunch with my wife.”

Graham leans his head against the headrest and closes his eyes. “Drop me off, then. You aren’t dressed for it anyway.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are these chapter lengths too short? If I make them longer, it might take longer to get them up (like it doesn’t already take forever) but I’d like to know what you all think.
> 
> Shoutout to bufferingad, by the way. Their comment made me so happy I immediately went to finish this chapter.


	7. Anima

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick receives mail from an old friend; Graham tries a different approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long. It’s been a wild month. But I guess I say that all the time, so...
> 
> I was rereading this story recently and I realized that in ch 2, there’s a repeated conversation. It’s been like that for months and I never noticed. That’ll teach me to organize documents...
> 
> Anyway, I went back and fixed it. The conversation is slightly different now, but you don’t have to go back and read it. It just makes the story flow a little better.
> 
> Lastly, this is a short chapter. It’s mostly filler, but this chap leads the way for the next one, which will be longer and full of plot. I’m really excited for it.

September in Gotham was always his mother’s favorite. They’d visit the forest together every time they spend autumn in Gotham, hand in hand. She pulls him to the tree line, him giggling the whole way. His ragged shoes kick through orange leaves and stomping through mud.

  
  


She stops suddenly and drops to a knee. Looks him in the eye with the utmost seriousness. She grabs his tiny little hands, so small between hers, and lays them against her chest. This is no joking matter.

  
  


He looks up into her eyes, so blue, like mirrors of his own. He looks just like her. He might grow to be his father’s height, but he is his mother’s son.

  
  


“Mama?”

  
  


She squeezes his hands. “Do you know what happens now?”

  
  


A grin splits his face. He nods, his head moving so fast it has to be painful. 

  
  


She matches his grin, just as excited. This is tradition, after all. “Okay. Are you ready?”

  
  


He’s only five, as he likes to tell everyone who shows the slightest bit of interest, and even some who don’t. Patience is not and likely never will be a Grayson family trait, but it’s at least not a toddler trait. He bounces on his toes, the acrobat in him ready to play.

  
  


“Come  _ on _ , Mama!”

  
  


She smiles a bit, feeling wistful in a way all mothers do at some point. Her boy is only five, but she has a feeling these years will fly by. 

  
  


She stands to her full height—which isn’t very impressive, but helps with the kinds of flips and holds that amaze crowds night after night—and covers her eyes.

  
  


“One,” she says.

  
  


He tries to stay silent, running through the leaves on his toes. She grins as his delighted giggles ruin any attempt at stealth.

  
  


“Two.”

  
  


Once he scales the first tree, it’s harder to track him. He’s graceful for five, strong and agile. A product of being thrown headfirst into the deep end of the gymnastics pool once he was old enough to walk.

  
  


“Three, four.”

  
  


He’s fast. Faster than either her or her husband. She fears that will get him in trouble one day.

  
  


“Five, six.”

  
  


He’s a good distance away, now. She only knows because his foot grazed a branch and the noise was just loud enough for her to hear.

  
  


“Seven, eight.”

  
  


She’s walking through the trees now, glancing up and around, searching for any sign of him. She checks the tree with the thickest branches and the one that splits into two but comes up empty. But then, she thinks she hears him cackle and she spins, kicking up leaves as she goes.

  
  


“Nine…”

  
  


Her eyes lock onto a tree a few feet away and her stomach twists. It’s the biggest tree of the bunch, and tall enough to be dangerous. It’s a monstrous thing, wider than two of her and taller than the rest by a decent amount. She knows her boy, knows he would’ve taken one glance at the sheer height of the tree and considered it a challenge.

  
  


She swallows down her motherly concern and inches closer to the tree. The roots are protruding from the ground, twisted and knotted and looking far too sinister for a  _ tree.  _

  
  


She hears a branch snap behind her and she turns around so fast she nearly topples over, her heart beating out of her chest.

  
  


“Boo!” He says, beaming like he didn’t just nearly put her in an early grave. 

  
  


She puts her hand over her heart as if that would stop the vicious pounding. She allows a small smile, but the fear nearly pulls tears of relief from her instead.

  
  


“You forgot to say ten!” He exclaims.

  
  


She exhales deeply and nods. “I… I did forget, yes.”

  
  


He notices her weak smile, her hand over her heart, and his smile drops. He takes a step closer, almost as if to non-verbally reassure her that he is okay, and says, “Mama? Are you okay?”

  
  


She gets down to his height and pulls him closer. He wraps his arms around her neck and buries his face in her shoulder. Her hand comes up to rest on his head and she takes a deep, steadying breath. “I’m okay,  _ mon cher. _ You scared me.”

  
  


It’s irrational, she knows. This is their tradition. She takes him every year that they’re able to play hide and seek in the forest, and he’s never been hurt. She doesn’t know where this sudden fear of him falling comes from, but it’s strong enough that she promises him a treat if they leave now with no fuss.

  
  


He agrees, but only because of the look on her face. 

  
  


Her fear ends up being for nothing anyway. Dick was never the Grayson that was meant to fall.

  
  


* * *

At their funeral, Dick promises his mother that he’ll be more careful.

  
  


He much prefers the disbelieving scoff to the cold, unresponsive gravestone.

  
  


* * *

  
  


A desk is far from the worst place he’s ever slept, but that certainly doesn’t mean that it’s comfortable.

  
  


His awakening is less than ideal as well. It’s only the fact that he’s still half-asleep that stops him from reacting with violence when something slaps the desk beside his head. When he raises his head, he’s glad he didn’t lash out. Dick isn’t so sure it would’ve gone well for him if Alfred decided to return the favor.

  
  


“Ah, you’re awake,” Alfred says, with the dry enthusiasm he’s missed. Of all things, Alfred is one of the biggest reasons he hated staying away from the manor for too long. “You received mail.”

  
  


Dick glances at the nondescript, white envelope and then back at Alfred. “Mail?”

  
  


Alfred gives a short nod. “Yes, Master Dick. You look as baffled as I when I discovered that my duties extended to postman.”

  
  


Dick snorts. “Thank you, Alfred.”

  
  


Alfred nods again. “Breakfast will be served shortly. In the meantime, please wash up. You look like you’ve spent the night on a desk.”

  
  


Dick watches fondly as he goes. He sighs and studies the envelope in his hand. It’s square and about the size of his palm. There’s no name other than his, either. Probably not a letter, then.

  
  


The bat part of him is telling him not to open it, to take it to the cave and run diagnostics tests until he was sure it wasn’t fear gas or Joker venom, or any other chemical meant to harm that might originate from a criminal’s vendetta against Batman and company.

  
  


The rational part of him, though, says that the thin paper and feather-light weight of the parcel is indicative of it being innocuous.

  
  


So he tucks that decade-old paranoia away and opens the envelope… and nearly drops it.

  
  


Because it’s  _ her. _

  
  


She’s younger, younger than she’d looked in his mind’s eye. To him, when he barely reached his dad’s hip, she always looked older. Now, though, he knows that it was an illusion, based on the assumption that every adult held unimaginable wisdom. It’s a childish belief, but one that every child subscribes to when considering their parents. 

  
  


But looking now, Mary Grayson was so  _ young. _

  
  


So young, and so full of joy when cradling her only son in her arms. In the photo, he appears to be about four or five. He’s giggling, face contorted into an expression of pure joy in a way that he hasn’t felt since before they died. So full of youthful hope and love for life.

  
  


It hurts his chest to look at it, but he’s also smiling. He hasn’t seen his mother in so long, hadn’t been able to grab any photos before being shipped off to juvie. Seeing her now is bittersweet, and he simultaneously wants to sob and start laughing as he looks at her grinning face.

  
  


God, he misses them. 

  
  


Attached to the back of the small Polaroid and nearly forgotten is a note, smaller than the photo itself. He spots his name at the top of the paper, written in a distantly familiar script.

  
  


_ Dick, _

_ It’s been a while. I found this photo in some of my old photo albums. Figured you would appreciate it. Come visit me sometime. _

_ Jack Haly _

  
  


The name itself is so much of a shock that the realization that Jack is still in Gotham hits him nearly a minute later. It’s then that he notices the address scrawled on the bottom and wonders why he lives in the Tricorner. 

  
  


The Tricorner is mostly docks and industrial buildings. Jack is the ringleader of a traveling circus. By nature, he doesn’t have any permanent residence, but even if he did, why would it be  _ there _ of all places?

  
  


Regardless, he needs to get to the kitchen before Alfred gets impatient. He tosses the note in a drawer and grabs a thumbtack. With a significant amount of satisfaction, he hangs the photo above his bed. If nothing else, it makes him feel like his mother is with him.

  
  


* * *

The next few days at the office, he makes little to no progress. 

  
  


The interview with Georgeta helped point them in the right direction, but so far, contacting the orphanage has been a task he isn’t really equipped with dealing with. His knowledge of the city has grown since the first week to include a Chinese place two streets from his and El’s apartment and a grocery store. Outside of that, he’s clueless.

  
  


It’s that reason, coupled with the FBI’s insistence that he needs a partner that forces him to spend more time with Graham than either of them would like. Although, Peter maintains that he has the worse end of the deal.

  
  


Friday comes around at a snail's pace. When it’s finally here, the clock seems to be ticking extra slow, like someone had invented time travel and used it for the express purpose of drawing out Peter’s Friday and subsequently torturing him by making him spend hours near the single most annoying co-worker he’s ever had. And that includes the guy at his first job who used to replace everyone’s lunch with his own various home-made baked goods. 

  
  


Peter spends most of Friday stuck in a car with Graham. The original plan was to visit the orphanage that Vivian had disappeared from, but their journey proved less than fruitful when the woman working the counter told them to leave and not come back unless they had a warrant.

  
  


Which isn’t necessarily indicative of a sinister organization, but it’s never a positive sign when someone sends you away without even hearing what you’re there for.

  
  


In any case, they aren’t going to get anywhere today. Warrants could take hours to obtain, and considering they had no substantial proof of any wrongdoing, their chances just dropped. On top of that, they don’t have a specific person or group of people to point fingers at. Vivian didn’t see any faces, so they have no suspect description.  _ And _ Gotham City’s Magistrate office has a notoriously heavy backlog. 

  
  


So, yeah, the odds are definitely against them.

  
  


Though Peter seems to be the only one out of the two that is even remotely bothered by it. For his part, Graham is sitting in the passenger seat, feet on the dash and a box of candy on his lap. He’s paying no attention to Peter as he explains that Finch has called them back to the office to complete paperwork. He simply sits there, munching obnoxiously on candy and watching a group of women across the street as they sip coffee.

  
  


Peter sighs. Graham’s behavior almost reminds him of Neal, if Neal had been a massive hindrance in the case and borderline creepy with women. 

  
  


“Graham,” Peter says. When Graham doesn’t respond, Peter feels anger build in his chest. “Graham!”

  
  


The man in question barely moves, just redirects his gaze towards Peter in a languid movement that has Peter suspecting Graham heard him the first time.

  
  


Peter resists the urge to lash out. Clearly, he’s the only one in this partnership invested in his job. If that’s how this is going to work, it’s better if he doesn’t start fights with the other half. “Finch says we’re done for the day.”

  
  


“Hm.”

  
  


Peter shakes his head at the non-response, but he’s learned to count his blessings where Graham is concerned. That response is better than whatever snarky response might have come up in its place. 

  
  


They’re about halfway to the office when Graham sits up suddenly. He places his box of candy haphazardly in the cup holder and wipes his hands off. 

  
  


Though curious, Peter doesn’t say anything. Peter’s patience is already running on empty and initiating a conversation with the man beside him might be all it takes for him to jerk the wheel and send the car flying off the bridge.

  
  


It’s a few more moments before Graham speaks. He sits in his seat, fingers interlaced on his lap. His eyebrows are pulled tight like he’s thinking. Just when Peter decides to let it go, he hears a quiet, “hey, Burke?”

  
  


“Yeah?”

  
  


Graham studies him for a moment. “I got a thing this weekend. It’s just a stupid charity thing, might only take about two hours. You could come if you want.”

  
  


Of all the things Peter thought he’d say, from the inane to the offensive, he hadn’t thought it’d be that.

  
  


“What?”

  
  


Graham exhaled. “Consider this an olive branch.”

  
  


Peter thinks that for one to offer an olive branch, they have to be willing to change. Though he doesn’t see that happening, he is always willing to give people a chance.

  
  


“An olive branch?”

  
  


“Yeah. I’m trying to…” Graham fiddles with his fingers for a beat, before shaking his head and backtracking. “You could bring your wife. I could introduce you to some people, people that know Gotham. Commissioner Gordon might be there. You’re both uptight and obsessed with law and order, so you should make fast friends.”

  
  


Graham is being uncharacteristically thoughtful, so Peter lets that last one slide. The cynical side of him is immediately suspicious, but after thinking it over, he decides it can’t hurt. What would Graham do to him at a charity event anyway?

  
  


Slowly, cautiously, Peter nods. “I’ll mention it to Elizabeth. She loves those kinds of events.”

  
  


Beside him, Graham nods in response. “Great. I’ll send the invitation to your phone.”

  
  


And then he puts his feet back on the dash, grabs his box of candy, and goes back to his obnoxious chewing. Like it never happened.

  
  


Strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think y’all will like the next chapter. It’s not The Reveal, but it’s something.


	8. Pecunia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A party, a meeting, an incongruity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, another update in less than a month. Not bad.

Turns out, Elizabeth loves high society events more than he’d originally realized. When he told her about the invite, she practically glowed.

  
  


“Peter, you better have accepted. Oh my god, if you told him no–“

  
  


“El, of course I accepted. I know how much you’ve wanted to attend something like this.”

  
  


And it’s not an exaggeration. She’s expressed, on multiple occasions, her love of neoclassical architecture and high-end fashion. A charity event attended by the biggest names in the Gotham society pages seems like the logical meeting point for those two things.

  
  


Elizabeth spends the rest of the afternoon agonizing over which outfit to wear, pairing earrings with necklaces and dresses with heels. By the time Saturday afternoon rolls around, she is practically bouncing around the apartment.

  
  


They leave at dusk, El in a deep red dress and matching earrings; Peter in his nicest suit—off the rack, of course. He lives on a federal agent’s salary, not an art thief’s ill-gotten gains—that Neal would surely turn his nose up at if he were here.

  
  


The weather is beautiful—the sun setting in the west, disappearing just past Gotham River and leaving the sky a gorgeous mixture of purples and oranges. By the time they pull up to the event, Peter is already in a good mood. 

  
  


The cars parked out front are flashy and opulent. Peter feels strange parking his Taurus beside a car that is worth ten of them. 

  
  


Graham didn’t invite them as a prank; Peter and El really are on the list. As they walk inside, glancing around at the lavish interior, Peter tries to stave off any feelings of unease. Tonight can only be a good night if he lets it be.

  
  


* * *

It’s nearly an hour before Graham sidles up next to him, clearly buzzed and as confident as Peter’s ever seen him. 

  
  


“Hey, Burke. Glad you made it. Where’s your wife?”

  
  


Peter gestures to a table where Elizabeth is sitting with some women, sipping wine that El would probably blanch around the price of. 

  
  


“Ah. Look out for Mrs. Whitehall. She’ll try to get your wife on some kind of natural diet or whatever she’s on these days and you’ll never hear the end of it,” Graham warns, with more than a little animosity.

  
  


Peter makes note of it. Graham leads him around the room, pointing people out to him but never introducing them. He has stories about nearly every room in the building, and Peter isn’t surprised to hear some of them. Like the time Graham took a bunch of people’s wallets and then threw them into the fountain. Or the time he stole Lex Luthor’s prized ring.

  
  


Maybe those stories would be endearing if it were someone else, but he knows that Graham thrives on chaos. Apparently, he always has.

  
  


Then again, he had invited Peter and Elizabeth tonight. Peter still isn’t sure whether or not he has an ulterior motive for doing so, but he chooses not to read too much into it. Peter doubts that Graham is trying to turn a new leaf, but there’s always the possibility.

  
  


They arrive back where they started and Graham turns to Peter. He opens his mouth to say something when his eyes lock onto something just behind Peter. He grins.

  
  


“Brucie!” Graham exclaims. “I haven’t seen you in, what, two months?”

  
  


As Bruce makes his way over, confident grin in place and lax posture, Peter feels very out of place. These aren’t his people, and he never could’ve imagined that he’d be attending one of these events for any reason outside of work.

  
  


With Graham distracted, Peter glances around the room. He’s surrounded by people he only sees in the papers, and occasionally on the news when one of them embarrasses themselves in public or says something moronic. Sure, they’re all at a charity event, but Peter suspects that a large portion of them are only present for performative reasons. He doubts most of them even know what the event is raising money  _ for. _

  
  


Bruce wraps an arm around Graham and chuckles. “Something like that. I was starting to think you were avoiding me,” Bruce says, with a level of warmth and familiarity that a normal person typically only reserves for friends. “You weren’t at Oliver’s party last month. I missed my drinking buddy.”

  
  


Graham sighs regretfully, but it seems rather insincere to Peter, who’d known Graham for a grand total of three weeks. Though, who knows if Bruce, famously dim, would even catch on. “Yeah, we just wrapped up a big case. Did you hear about the Greenfeld murder?”

  
  


Bruce pulls away and studies Graham, wide-eyed. “That was you?”

  
  


Graham’s smug grin is all the confirmation Bruce needs and Bruce’s smile nearly splits his face. 

  
  


As Peter watches the two, he feels a headache building behind his eyes. Graham thrives on attention and admiration, and when he’s among other privileged Gothamites, it’s glaringly obvious.

  
  


For one thing, the Greenfeld murder hadn’t been heavily publicized, but the barebones details are relatively well-known. Through news coverage and word-of-mouth, Peter knew that not only did Major Crimes have  _ no  _ part in the investigation, the FBI as a whole only helped in the analysis of a letter that got the killer put on death row. In fact, even the police department had very little to do with the investigation. If he recalled correctly, all the heavy lifting had been done by Batman.

  
  


He tunes in to the conversation briefly, but Bruce is only asking for the lurid details and the arrest itself, with Graham parroting newspaper headlines as if he’d been there himself. Bruce, despite being  _ from _ Gotham, must not know the case very well, because he is taking it all in with rapt interest, believing every half-truth and full-blown lie that comes out of the younger man’s mouth.

  
  


Peter spots El breaking away from a group of women on the far side of the room. He moves to join her, but a hand on his shoulder stops him in his tracks.

  
  


“Speaking of work, this is my partner, Peter Burke.” 

  
  


Peter suppresses the urge to sigh. His manners catch up to him and he meets Bruce’s eyes for the first time. He reaches his hand out, giving Bruce a polite smile. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne.” 

  
  


Bruce turns to him and, strangely, does a double-take. Then, surreptitiously, gives him a once-over that he probably thinks Peter doesn’t notice. Peter wants to roll his eyes. 

  
  


_ What’s the matter, Bruce? Never seen a Brooks Brothers suit before?  _ He thinks.

  
  


Bruce grabs his hand and shakes it firmly. His grin, ever-present and just as cocky as it looks on TV, doesn’t meet his eyes. “My reputation precedes me,” he says, voice rumbling deep in his chest.

  
  


Peter almost laughs. Surely he knows that he’s the most recognizable man in Gotham, right? 

  
  


Then again, Peter can tell from Bruce’s posture and the fact that he’s Bruce Wayne that he’s somewhat inebriated. Maybe the things he says are slightly less inane when he’s sober.

  
  


Peter takes a breath. Maybe he’s being too harsh on the man. All he’s done so far is introduce himself. And Bruce—despite being disgustingly rich—has never been in any serious trouble. To Peter’s knowledge, Bruce doesn’t use his excessive funds for any wrongdoing. If anything, it’s the opposite. He’s put a lot of money back into the city, built it up a little in places that needed the help.

  
  


Maybe the stress of the last few weeks is getting to him. So, as an apology for judging the man before he knew him, Peter allows his smile to soften into something genuine. “Yes, I’ve heard about the things you’ve done for this city. It’s incredible how you’ve turned tragedy into something positive.”

  
  


Bruce’s smile turns small and– well, maybe not  _ shy,  _ but he does seem modest. It’s a nice change of pace from the cocksure man he’d been a few moments ago. “Yes, well. My father believed in this city. I’m just doing what I can to carry on his legacy.”

  
  


Peter nods. He’d always been close with his father. If they had been in similar circumstances growing up—with Peter’s father suddenly dying and Peter inheriting his wealth at a young age—Peter would have done the same. 

  
  


Maybe Bruce Wayne isn’t as bad as he thought. It seems that there’s more to him than the tabloids bothered to mention.

  
  


Graham, never one to stay silent for long, chooses that moment to interrupt. “Hey, I heard Dick is back in Gotham. Is he here? I want to say hello.”

  
  


Peter knows the name. At least, he knows that he  _ should  _ know it. Unfortunately, it isn’t ringing any bells right now, so he files it away for later.

  
  


Bruce turns, taking the interruption in stride. He looks regretful. “Sorry, he’s off in France for… uh,” he trails off. He looks to be deep in thought, but before too long, he shakes his head. “I don’t remember. But he’ll be back soon.”

  
  


Graham and Bruce’s conversation turns to gossip that Peter hasn’t been around long enough to be able to follow, so he turns and glances around the room, trying to catch sight of Elizabeth. When he finds her, he tries not to be too obvious in his joy. He bids a quick goodbye to Bruce and Graham and hurries off.

  
  


Elizabeth brightens when she spots him. “Hey! Are you having fun?”

  
  


Peter nods, smiling.  _ She’s  _ clearly having fun. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw her glowing like this. He makes a mental note to take her out more.

  
  


“Oh! Peter!” She grabs his arm and pulls him closer. “Did you know that Cheryl Whitehall—that’s her over there,” Elizabeth points to a woman across the room in a gold dress. It’s not as extravagant as he would have expected, but it’s certainly not inexpensive. “Do you know she owns this place? She showed me around. This building is one of the oldest buildings in the city…”

  
  


One thing is for sure, he’d much rather listen to his wife enthusiastically recount her encounters with the rich and famous than be locked in a conversation with Bruce and Graham. He loves the way her eyes gleam when she’s happy.

  
  


* * *

As they’re leaving, Peter catches a glimpse of Bruce sometime later, huddled in a corner with some real estate titans and oil tycoons. He’s far enough away that Peter can’t make out what they’re talking about, but he does notice that Bruce seems to be even more drunk than before. That isn’t exactly unusual, but something about it is… off. 

  
  


Bruce’s posture is far too tense, and his eyes are more alert than he’s ever seen in a drunk man. Bruce is aware of his surroundings, scanning the room in a way that he probably thinks no one notices. He focuses on the men in front of him just long enough to convince them that he’s engaged in the conversation before he glances at something over one of the men’s shoulders or on top of the balcony. He’s very alert. It isn’t something you’d expect to see.

  
  


Peter, though, is very observant. And when Bruce finally meets his gaze, Peter is certain that the man is faking it.

  
  


Of course, Peter can’t say for certain that there is any substance underneath the act. Maybe he’s only pretending for the benefit of those around him, but it  _ is  _ curious.

  
  


* * *

“Alright. It’s been twenty minutes since you’ve said anything and I can only take so many distracted nods before I get worried. What’s going on up there?” Elizabeth asks from the passenger seat, tapping her pointer finger against his temple.

  
  


Peter glances over at her momentarily before turning his attention back to the road. Gotham isn’t as busy as he’s used to. In New York—especially Manhattan—the traffic never stops, not even at one-thirty in the morning. He’s tired, and he can’t wait to fall into bed so he can sleep in and wake up around noon to the smell of coffee.

  
  


Currently, he’s stopped at a red light, following the blindingly bright lights of a police car as it passes, followed shortly after by an ambulance. It’s not a rare sight in any city, and Gotham is no exception.

  
  


Peter releases the wheel from his death grip and sits back in his seat. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m just tired, I guess.”

  
  


Elizabeth hums, discontented. “You’re tense. I don’t think that’s all.”

  
  


Peter glances at her and gives her a soft smile. He  _ is  _ tired, that hadn’t been a lie, but he’s also tense. His knuckles still ache a bit from the strength he’d used to nearly break the steering wheel in half. “Being near Graham for that amount of time will do that to you, I guess,” he tries.

  
  


“Yeah, I can see that,” she says, gentle and quiet and exactly the opposite of the man in question. “He’s nice enough.”

  
  


Peter snorts. “Maybe at first. And maybe if you’re a woman. And you have a drink in your hand.”

  
  


Elizabeth rolls her eyes and gives him a fond smile that’s soft around the edges. “Maybe so. I still don’t think you’ve answered my question, though.”

  
  


He doesn’t really want to tell her about his odd theory about Bruce Wayne. Well, it’s not a  _ theory _ , precisely. Just something that he noticed, and barely worth mentioning. But then the traffic lulls a bit and he looks over at her and curses himself for marrying a brilliant woman. 

  
  


Peter sighs. She won’t mock him for this. “Bruce Wayne was pretending to be drunk earlier,” he says. Immediately, he adds, “It’s nothing huge, just kind of strange.”

  
  


Elizabeth nods. “What do you mean? How do you know he was pretending?”

  
  


“He was… I don’t know. He just kept leaning on people, laughing too hard at jokes that weren’t funny, stumbling and slurring. But then, when he thought nobody was watching, he’d scan the room, like he was waiting for something. A threat, maybe.”

  
  


It is stupid. As it comes out of his mouth, he wants to just stop mid-sentence and forget about it. What does it matter, anyway? Bruce Wayne pretends to be drunk at parties for his own unusual, esoteric reasons and the world moves on. 

  
  


And he _’_ s a loner. One would be forgiven for forgetting that, with the way he glides through crowds like he was born for it, schmoozing and socializing the night away. Then, when he decides he’s had enough, he goes home to his palatial mansion on the outskirts of Gotham and remains on the outskirts of Gotham society until it’s time for the next charity event or Wayne Enterprises press conference. 

  
  


From what he understands, Bruce is the adoptive father to a few kids. They don’t make headlines much, wouldn’t even be recognized on the streets, really, but that move had been considered highly out of character for the womanizing, ditzy party-boy.

  
  


Now that he thinks of it, the juxtaposition of the man he’d just met, the man who lives party-to-party and the reclusive CEO doesn’t really make much sense. Why would a man who supposedly loves three things in life—women, alcohol and an audience—prefer to be  _ away  _ from the action?

  
  


Elizabeth is silent beside him, musing, maybe, but it’s more likely that she’s waiting on him to continue. She’s always done this, listening as he works his problems out loud. Sometimes she’ll provide input (in some cases, she’s been the only thing that pushed him in the right direction) but she knows when he only needs someone to talk at and is more than happy to be that person.

  
  


Their turn is coming up and he doesn’t want to miss it, so he’s silent for a moment before he speaks again. “He saw me watching him.”

  
  


Elizabeth raises an eyebrow. “And?”

  
  


“I don’t know.” He means it. He doesn’t know what any of this means, if it means anything at all. Maybe he’s just tired and overthinking.

  
  


Or, maybe Bruce Wayne is more than an eccentric billionaire. Maybe there’s something below the layer of dense, never sober playboy. His hunches are hardly ever wrong.

  
  


“I saw you two talking. Did he give you the impression that he was hiding something?”

  
  


Peter shakes his head. “No, actually. He was perfectly normal.”

  
  


Elizabeth yawns and he’s suddenly reminded of his own exhaustion. It’s nearly one in the morning, but at least it’s a weekend.

  
  


“Maybe he’s considering acting,” Elizabeth suggests as they pull up in front of their apartment. She’s not serious, but it’s more plausible than any explanation he’s come up with.

  
  


Peter lets out a soft chuckle. “With Bruce Wayne, you can never tell.”

  
  
  
  
  



	9. Aurora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick visits an old friend and gets a lead.

Tricorner isn’t the nicest area. Sure, it’s no Crime Alley, but it’s still Gotham, and it’s far enough away from a police station that it’s just barely toeing the line between bearable and downright miserable. 

  
  


The neighborhood is home to mostly dock and factory workers, so the crime rate is relatively low compared to other places in Gotham. Still, it’s higher than the rest of the country, and Dick is, of course, on high alert as he makes his way towards the address he’d been given.

  
  


It’s a Sunday morning, so the streets are mostly quiet. Church hasn’t ended yet, so most people are either there or having breakfast. 

  
  


Some days, it’s like every Gothamite simultaneously agrees to take the day off and they stay home or hunker down in a bar or a club. The streets are rather quiet those days and it usually sets him on edge. He doesn’t trust the peace after having been raised in the chaos. He doesn’t know what to do with peace.

  
  


Today, though, he finds himself enjoying it. He can still hear traffic, but the sound of nature overtakes it, and he has to focus to hear the hum of engines.

  
  


Tricorner isn’t a busy area, so the traffic is mostly concentrated across the bridge. From his place in front of Jack’s apartment building, he can hear birds twittering in the park across the street, feel the gentle breeze against his face. It’s not something he’s used to after spending a few years in New York.

  
  


The tranquility doesn’t last long, though. Dick exhales, then turns, taking in the dilapidated building in front of him and he feels a pit grow in his stomach. Well, dilapidated might be too strong a word. It isn’t in disrepair, at least, it doesn’t look it from the outside, but it is a little run down, brick wall stained black from the nearby factories and a grimy film over the windows. It’s the kind of place you’d expect to find in the more neutral areas of Gotham, not quite upper-class but not impoverished, either.

  
  


It makes him wonder what Jack Haly is up to these days.

  
  


* * *

Dick is pleased to find that Jack hasn’t changed much from his ringleader days. He’s still the warm, grand-fatherly man he’d known in his childhood. 

  
  


When Jack lays eyes on him, all grown up and much taller than he’d been used to, he straightens, giving a deep, joyful laugh and a tight hug. Dick can’t keep the grin off his face. Being near Jack had always filled him with delight, but these days, it felt more like being with his parents again. 

  
  


Spending time with Bruce, Alfred and Tim is still his favorite thing in the world, but Haly’s Circus had been home, and having Jack here felt like his parents had never left.

  
  


“Look at you!” Jack says, a hand on each shoulder. He has to look up slightly to meet Dick’s eyes. “Dick Grayson, all grown up. I’ve seen you on the news, but it never did you justice. The last time I saw you, you barely came up to my shoulder.”

  
  


Dick chuckles, but it’s mostly nervous energy and happiness. “It’s been a while, old man. Your hair didn’t survive the wait.”

  
  


Jack scoffs, but that doesn’t keep a grin from forming. “You’ve always been a smartass,” he quips. Jack leads Dick to the living room, sitting him down on a deceptively comfortable couch. “You want some coffee?”

  
  


Dick agrees, and Jack disappears into the kitchen. Dick takes the time to study the apartment, glancing over the meager decorations. Jack has a great view of the harbor, but the harbor isn’t really a great view, so Dick moves on. 

  
  


There’s a small television in the corner, resting on a stand filled with discs. Beside that is a plant, which must be Jack’s attempt to bring some life into the place. Just as Jack is returning from the kitchen with two mugs in hand, Dick’s eyes fall on the mantle. He stands and steps closer, studying the photos in the tiny frames.

  
  


A small, wistful grin grows as he looks over the photos and remembers the day they were taken. A group photo with the whole circus; Jack with Gunther, the circus’ lion; Waldo and Harry, both clowns. His longing for those days grows and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  
  


Jack steps up behind him. He points at a photo Dick had overlooked. “Remember Raya? Everyone was so sure you two would end up married.”

  
  


Dick rolls his eyes. Raya had been his first crush, but he hasn’t thought about her in years. “Yeah, I remember. Her dad hated me.”

  
  


“Well, you were persistent.”

  
  


“I was seven!” Dick exclaims, holding out his hands as if he expects Jack to back him up. Jack simply laughs. “It’s not like I was going to run away with her. I just liked her hair.”

  
  


Jack is thoroughly amused. He’s still laughing and Dick lets out an exasperated huff. Jack looks back at the photo. “I wonder what she’s up to these days. I haven’t heard much from the rest of the troupe. Did you hear about Jimmy?”

  
  


Dick sobers and nods. He had heard about Jimmy and his death at the hands of the Joker, simply for bearing a resemblance to the madman. Dick didn’t know Jimmy too well, but he had been from Haly’s, which automatically made him family. The Joker has a habit of taking people from Dick.

  
  


Jack shakes his head scornfully. “It’s a shame. I wonder sometimes if it’s worth it to live here. I’ve considered moving to Pittsburgh. I think I’ve got some family out there, and it’s a lot less dangerous.”

  
  


Dick can’t say that’s a bad idea. In fact, he’d like to see Jack move somewhere safer, a place where he wouldn’t have to worry about the likes of the Joker. Dick would miss him, sure, but that’s a price he’s willing to pay if it means one of the last remaining people who remember his parents stays safe.

  
  


“Why haven’t you?”

  
  


Jack shrugs. “I just can’t bring myself to leave. The memories, the heartbreak—all of it is here.”

  
  


Dick can understand that. He _did_ leave, but he’d always longed to return. His departure was never meant to be permanent. Gotham is his, and he is Gotham’s. Always.

  
  


His parents are buried here. Bruce and the rest of the family are here. Even Peter and El are here now, though he doesn’t know if he will ever have the courage to reveal himself. Despite his losses, nowhere else had ever felt like Gotham. New York is a close second, but Gotham is his home, and he understands Jack’s reluctance to leave. 

  
  


“Sit. Your coffee is getting cold.”

  
  


Dick does, sinking into the forgiving softness of the cushion while Jack takes the chair across from him. He sips his coffee, letting the silence linger for a moment before looking up. “What are you up to these days, old man?”

  
  


Jack scoffs. “I’m young at heart, kid. That’s all that matters.” Jack puts his mug down on the table between them and sits back in his chair. “I work at the docks. Load cargo crates and send them on their way.”

  
  


Dick glances at him. That explains the exhaustion. Dick had never seen the man so worn down. “The docks? Figured you go for something more…”

  
  


Jack raises an eyebrow. “Performative?”

  
  


“Yeah.”

  
  


Jack chuckles. “We’re not all born for the stage, kid. It’s never really been my bag anyway.”

  
  


Dick frowns. “You were a great ringleader.”

  
  


And it is true. Jack had been someone they all looked up to, and he had a way of speaking that made you feel like you knew him, even if you never actually had met him.

  
  


“Nah. I was…” Jack trails off, then tilts his head. “It was time for a change. What about you? Are you still into acrobatics?”

  
  


“Yeah.” In a manner of speaking, he’d never really stopped. He can still do his quadruple somersault, still knows how to fly on a trapeze. He just doesn’t do it for a paying audience anymore.

  
  


Jack watches him, dark eyes roaming Dick’s face like he’s waiting for more. It makes Dick uncomfortable, the way Jack knows when he’s holding something back, even after all these years.

  
  


Dick smiles to hide the discomfort and attempts to deflect. “But my life is pretty well documented. What about you? You said you work at the docks now?”

  
  


The coffee steams between them, swirling unbroken in the silence. Jack breaks it, scoffing and shaking his head. “Yeah, alright kid.” He fidgets in his seat before settling and looking Dick in the eye. “Yeah, I work at the docks. Loading and unloading. Recording weights and things. Dealing with shady colleagues. You know how it is.”

  
  


Dick flushes. There’s only a handful of people on earth that can see right through him and Jack is one of them. Clearly, his attempt at changing the subject had not been successful. 

  
  


“Shady colleagues, huh? Sounds like Gotham.”

  
  


Jack exhales and nods. “Unfortunately. I just hope they’re not up to what I think they are.”

  
  


Coffee forgotten, Dick leans forward. Jack seems troubled, his eyebrows knitted and the wrinkles around his eyes so prominent that it makes Dick’s heart hurt. “What do you mean?”

  
  


“A man came up to me about three months ago. He asked if I wanted to make some money on the side. At the time, I thought nothing of it. That’s Gotham, you know? There’s always someone trying to rope you into something.”

  
  


Dick nodded. Whatever it is, it’s clearly weighing on Jack. He’s looking much older than he should these days. “What changed?”

  
  


Jack sighed. “Some of the guys I work with, they must’ve taken him up on it. I’ve caught a few of them whispering, but they stop before I can get too close. That, and they seem to be getting some extra spending money somewhere. Dock work doesn’t pay much, but these guys are riding around in cars that I couldn’t afford in my wildest dreams.”

  
  


It’s odd, sure, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that whatever the men are into is illegal. Realistically, it’s almost certain that it _is_ illegal, but Dick needs more than assumptions to go digging around the docks. He’s got enough to do as it is.

  
  


“What about the man? What did he offer exactly?” Dick questions.

  
  


“He told me not to check the crates with a certain logo on them and he would reward me. Which means there were probably drugs, guns or god knows what inside. He probably worked for one of the big bosses,” Jack says.

  
  


Dick agrees that it’s suspicious. There’s no innocent reason to want to avoid a routine inspection. “What logo?”

  
  


Jack shrugs. “A snake, I think.” He shakes his head. “No. It was a snake wrapped around something… I think I have the photo somewhere.”

  
  


Dick watches as Jack pulls himself out of his seat, aging joints protesting his movements. Dick allows a small smile at the small huff of exertion Jack makes. Jack notices and scoffs. “Not a word,” he says, and disappears into a hallway.

  
  


Dick shakes his head and leans back against the couch cushions. He takes a sip of his coffee, now lukewarm, and finds himself looking out the window. If the harbor weren’t so grimy, it could be beautiful. If the water was blue instead of murky brown, and the city an entirely different one, the harbor might be a sight worth seeing.

  
  


Jack returns just as he’s growing bored with the view. “Found it,” he announces. He hands the paper to Dick. Dick studies it for a few silent moments. “Recognize it?”

  
  


Dick shakes his head. It’s a bit strange. The logo is a snake wrapped around a lighthouse. There are no words, no hints as to who it might belong to. 

  
  


“It has to be a company, right?”

  
  


Jack hums. “You would think. I asked around; no one recognizes it. If it is a company, they really need a better marketing team.”

  
  


Dick says nothing. He focuses on memorizing the logo for later. It’s a strange enough case that it has caught his attention. Even if it amounts to nothing, it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to poke around the docks a bit. 

  
  


Dick hands over the paper. “Have you considered going to the police?”

  
  


Jack gives him a look. “It’s Gotham, son. Even if I had something worthwhile to give to them, it’s still Gotham.”

  
  


“Your boss, then?”

  
  


Exhaling, Jack shakes his head. “She isn’t much help. I don’t think I’m solving this one.”

  
  


_Not so fast,_ he thinks. Dick doesn’t voice his doubt, though, because a lot of years have passed and there are things that Jack doesn’t know about him, so he smiles and changes the subject.

  
  


* * *

He shifts back into detective mode fairly easily, the moonlight helping the transformation along. He’s always loved the night, with its light and shadows, and the mysteries it unearths.

  
  
  


Dick does his best work when the moon is high in the sky and all sane people are sound asleep. Right now, for instance, he’s sifting through cargo crates in search of… something.

  
  


Honestly, he isn’t sure why he’s doing this. Surely there are more urgent matters he could be attending to.

  
  


Regardless, Dick feels a thrill shoot through him as he skirts the beam of a security guard’s flashlight. Stealth has always been one of his strong suits and he missed it. 

  
  


His time with the FBI had been stimulating, but it would never come close to _this._ Being a protector, a guardian, a detective, an acrobat. Dick’s best tool is his mind, yes, but there’s something undeniably exhilarating about using acrobatics to catch a criminal off guard or traverse the city, and he knows Gotham’s layout like the back of his hand.

  
  


Dick jumps out of a guard’s path, feet not making a sound as he makes his way across rain and oil-slicked concrete. He comes to a stop at another crate, a brownish-green with a faded logo painted on the side. It’s old and chipped, nearly impossible to make out unless you know what you’re looking for. Dick smirks. The logo is definitely a snake, but all that’s left of the lighthouse are specks of red and white. Still, this is one of the crates he’s looking for.

  
  


He gets to work on the lock, but it’s a little more complicated than usual. It takes him a few seconds to realize that what looks like a padlock is actually a decoy, and would likely set off an alarm of some sort if he tampered with it too much.

  
  


Interesting. Whatever is inside must be valuable.

  
  


Dick steps back, weighing his options. He doesn’t know who is monitoring the crate, so breaking the lock or attempting to pick it anyway is a risky option, especially since it likely wouldn’t work. Dick suspects there’s a biometric lock somewhere on the crate or a hidden keypad. Whoever this crate belongs to had spent a lot of time making sure that the contents remain concealed.

  
  


Time is ticking and he’s not sure what to do. The guard should be making his rounds again any second, so Dick climbs on top of a stack of five crates to get a good vantage point while he considers his options.

  
  


Just as he expected, one of the guard’s flashlight beams sweeps around the corner, signaling his arrival. His boots echo off the crates as he stomps down the row. Dick tracks him halfway down the row before he stops and glances behind him. The guard spins around in a move that anyone would clock as suspicious. He’s making sure he’s alone. Dick settles into a crouch.

  
  


The guard switches off his flashlight before doubling back to the very crate Dick had been attempting to open. The guard steps close, leaning down and putting his face close to the padlock. The padlock makes a clicking noise before opening.

  
  


_A retinal scanner. Of course,_ Dick thinks. Retinal scanners are more secure than fingerprint scanners, but they can still be hacked. Well, if Dick had known it was there, anyway. 

  
  


The guard pulls one side of the door open before pulling out a set of keys. There’s a set of inner doors—big, thick chunks of metal that the guard slides a key into and pulls open with substantial effort.

  
  


Yes, whatever is behind these doors is either incredibly valuable or _immensely_ dangerous.

  
  


Once the crate is open, the guard disappears inside. Dick doesn’t see anything at first. From his position—which, admittedly, isn’t the best—all he sees is the metal flooring of the crate. But then, he hears voices. A hushed, deep voice, and a frantic, higher one. 

  
  


_People,_ Dick thinks. _They’re transporting people in those crates._

  
  


Dick raises a hand to his ear and presses a button. The comm unit in his ear enhances his hearing, allowing him to hear from a distance and through walls. The limit is only half a block, but it still comes in handy. Lucius is a gift.

  
  


The voices echo strangely from the metal confines of the crate, but he can make out what they’re saying. 

  
  


“Please, I want to go home,” the higher-pitched voice pleads.

  
  


“No can do, kid. Boss wants you in a car out front in ten minutes.” The deeper voice grunts and the metallic sound of chains rattling fills the crate. 

  
  


“What? No! Where are you taking me?” The voice has to belong to a teenager. Dick’s chest tightens. 

  
  


The guard sighs. There’s a noise like keys bouncing off each other, and when the guard speaks again, he sounds annoyed. “Come on. I was hoping this would be a quiet night. I don’t want to be here anymore than you do. Let me get you out of these handcuffs and we never have to see each other again. Got it?”

  
  


The kid doesn’t answer. The metallic sound resumes, and Dick has only a few seconds to decide what to do.

  
  


The crate is innocent on the outside, just one out of a hundred other shipping crates. The inside, though Dick didn’t have the best view, is metal, thick enough to add a least a thousand extra pounds. And locked inside, once you get past all the security, is a child. 

  
  


It’s all incredibly similar to the box truck he’d found recently, and the other child held within.

  
  


They have to be connected. Dick would bet that if he can get a better look at the shipping crate, it's most likely lined with lead as well. It’s all just too similar to be a coincidence.

  
  


The fear in the kid’s voice, the sound of the handcuffs used to bind him, the unsympathetic tone of the guard's voice—all of it makes him want to dive off his perch and beat the guard into a coma. His chest burns with anger, and he wants to find every last person responsible for this operation and make it known what kind of monster they are.

  
  


Kids… kids are off-limits. Every two-bit thug with half a soul knows that. It’s an unspoken rule but a vital one, so crucial that it could be the eleventh commandment: _thou shalt not harm a child._

  
  


But.

  
  


That’s not what Bruce would do. He may agree wholeheartedly with the sentiment, but he knows how important it is to act with your brain above all else. Dick’s heart is telling him to save the boy now, get him to the correct authorities. But his brain is telling him to follow the two of them to the car, and then the car to its destination, and then get any information out of the person who sought fit to _purchase_ another human, let alone a _child._

  
  


He’s not going to do either of those things, though. The voices in the crate grow louder, and Dick focuses back on its inhabitants.

  
  


“Whoa, relax, kid. I’m not gonna hurt you. Just relax.” The guard sounds fearful. 

  
  


Dick pushes himself up, preparing to intervene. He can’t imagine how the boy poses a threat, but he can’t dwell on it for too long.

  
  


Then, Dick hears a horrifying screech of metal, then a terrified scream. He doesn’t have a chance to move a muscle when the scream dies out, and the boy jets out of the crate.

  
  


Other guards have begun to react, and Dick vaguely notices some running towards the crate. The boy is standing in the middle of the row, glancing in every direction in search of an escape. His eyes are wide and frantic.

  
  


The guards are closing in on him. Dick can hear yelling and the shuffling of boots on wet concrete. The boy looks up, then back to the side as the guards finally turn the corner.

  
  


The boy takes off towards the stack of crates, using a steel cable reel to reach the top of a shipping crate. He clears the top just as a group of four guards starts firing, bullets hitting light poles and crates. Dick ducks down, intending to surprise the boy. 

  
  


Instead, the boy scales the stack that Dick is hiding on, and freezes once he spots him.

  
  


Dick puts his hands up, palms facing the frightened boy. “I’m here to help. Don’t run.”

  
  


Predictably, the boy doesn’t listen. He charges Dick, colliding with him and throwing him backward with the strength of a bus. Dick’s head meets something hard, and everything turns black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that injury would probably result in a permanent brain injury in real life. Oh well.


End file.
